#her > any of them except Georgia

[bronzeyslcve]

take charge - lucy bronze

pairing: lucy bronze x female reader

theme: smut

warnings: smut, minors dni, fingering, strap-on use, oral sex, praise kink, gag use, orgasm control, submissive lucy, pet names, use of y/n

summary: lucy has always been the dominant one out of the two of you throughout your entire five year relationship. when leah tears her acl, Sarina gives you the armband for the World Cup. Something about you in the armband turns lucy on and suddenly, she wants you to take control in the bedroom…

notes: based on this request, thank you sm anon! whilst writing this, half of it didn’t save so i had to rewrite most of the match part so sorry if it’s really bad <3

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It was heartbreaking watching Leah tear her ACL, the three letters confirming to you and all of your England teammates that your captain would miss the World Cup. You had no idea who Sarina would give the armband to, you thought Millie would receive it, or even Lucy, she deserved it more than most in your definite non-biased opinion. But Sarina had other plans. You were announced as the captain for the World Cup. Naturally, you were honoured to not only represent your country but to know hopefully captain them to a World Cup win, it was a childhood dream come true and Lucy couldn’t have been prouder of you.

So far, you had lead the team through the group stages, having won all three matches and you couldn’t be happier. You had noticed a slight change in Lucy ever since your first game against Haiti, but you put it down to just tournament nerves. Not knowing what was really going through her head. Having no clue that seeing you lead all the girls on the pitch, wearing that armband and being much more commanding and even more confident then you normally are, has been doing things to her.

All this week, you had been preparing for the game against Nigeria. You weren’t stupid, you knew it was going to be tough. They’re physical. Way more physical than the Lionesses but you were all ready. Or that’s what you thought. You played in the left-wing back position, which allowed you to cover the back and push up a little, which you loved doing. You had a good link up going with Georgia but Nigeria were quick to break it, quick to have you marked down and so you could do nothing, not really, except for telling your girls what to do.

Rarely, anger was never an emotion you dealt with on the pitch. You never got angry, not really, the last time you had it was the champions league final back in 2020 for an unjust foul committed on you that should’ve been a penalty, but it wasn’t awarded. However, watching you get awarded a penalty in the 31st minute and then having it taken off of you in the 34th just really pissed you off. You thought it should’ve stood. But it didn’t. When you’re angry on the pitch, you get a touch more aggressive, more loud and much more pissed if things don’t go your way. And that’s exactly what starts to happen.

The last minutes of the first half are basically just filled with you shouting at the girls, telling them what to do, putting challenges in on the Nigerian players, but still being careful to not get carded for them. When you come off for half time, Lucy is the first one over to you, putting her arm around your waist, whilst you two walk back through the tunnel. All of the fans knew about your relationship, I mean the pair of you never made any effort to hide it, meaning you could be more open with some of your affections.

“That should’ve been a fucking penalty,” you huff, as you walk towards the changing rooms, Lucy’s arm never leaving its position of being wrapped around your waist.

“I know baby, I know. Don’t threat about it though, we’ll be okay, we have you, you’re playing exceptional as always,” Lucy reassured you, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head, ignoring the feelings stirring inside of her from watching you get angry on the pitch. From wearing that armband. You have absolutely no clue how much you’re turning her on.

“Luce, I’ve hardly done anything,” you sigh softly as you make your way through the changing room and sit down at your cubby, which is conveniently next to your girlfriends.

“Yes you have. The passes that you have managed to make have been perfect, you’ve kept the left locked down and you’ve been commanding us really well.”

You smile softly at her and she presses a gentle peck to your lips before whispering against them lowly, “It’s very hot actually,” before she leaves to use the toilet to adjust herself.

Sarina gives her usual half time speech, telling you all on how to improve, then about ten minutes later you’re all back on the pitch. The knowledge that Lucy finds how you’re carrying yourself on the pitch hot, sends sparks flying through you. You weren’t thinking about that, not at all, but now, it’s in the back of your mind and you can’t help but want to impress her just a little more.

By the 83rd minute, most of the girls are tired. Nigeria’s physicality is just knackering the entire team. Sarina still hasn’t made any changes and it’s annoying you a little bit, your team are tired, substitutions need to be made. That’s why it doesn’t surprise you as much when frustrations get the better of Lauren James. Sure, her stamp on Alozie was completely unnecessary, but you understand why she did it. You’re frustrated too, however you have the maturity, which Lauren lacks and needs to work on, to time your tackles right, to not foul a player as said tackles you have committed have all been completely legal. Yes your frustrations did get the better of you in the 73rd minute leading to you getting a yellow card, but that was only for talking back to the ref, who you now had down as being a wanker, you didn’t like her. You knew the red card was coming to Lauren, a blind idiot would know, but that still doesn’t mean it didn’t hit the team hard. Being forced to drop to ten whilst you’re already struggling isn’t really an ideal situation.

The last eight minutes were utter hell for England. Scrappy, sloppy, whatever the commentators want to call it. You are extremely lucky to be going into extra time and not home. There were multiple shots from Nigeria that could’ve gone in but didn’t.

When the first fifteen minutes of extra time roll around after the short break, Nigeria’s tactics are slightly different. They try to test you, try to exploit the left side which they haven’t for the entire game. However you’re successful at keeping it locked down, not letting them get around you, which means they take back up their usual routine of going down the middle or the right.

In the 98th minute, a diagonal ball that’s just completely ignored by Millie could’ve easily been scored, it was a big chance for Nigeria. A huge one, it could’ve won them the game. But it didn’t. That still doesn’t mean that you didn’t have a few stern words with your vice captain. Millie understood and she was incredibly apologetic, knowing she fucked up, her words, not yours, she’s tired. All of the girls are, you couldn’t blame her that much, so you just remind her to stay alert and on her player, that’s all really.

You notice Nigeria decide to attack down the right, and Lucy isn’t doing all that well. She seems distracted by something. You’ve never shouted at Lucy on the pitch before, but you just have to, she has to lock that right side down, you can’t concede.

“Luce, c’mon snap out of it, stay on her!” you shout at your girlfriend and Lucy is quick to react. She improves her marking of Ajibade instantly and doesn’t let her past her, locking the right down just how you wanted. Yet again, you had no idea what you had just done to Lucy. The way you commanded her stirred something primal within her, but she was quick to snap out of it: remembering your earlier words, not wanting to disappoint you. It was a weird feeling for Lucy, but she was sure that if you asked her to do anything: she’d do it for you.

The first half of the extra time comes to an end and you have a little break, having a quick gel and then a word with the girls to just play their best and for now push through the pain and the tiredness for their county. For winning this game and for hopefully winning the World Champion title in a few weeks time.

The second half of extra time kicks off and it’s an improvement from the first, you have a second substitution now, so more fresh legs and Beth England is an excellent player.

In the back of your mind, you know that ever since Lauren’s red card you’ve had less possession and have not had a single shot. You pray to change that. You want one to end up in the back of that net, not really wanting to have to end up with going to penalties. But it seems like fate has other ideas. There was a couple of chances that England had in that last half, but unfortunately none could connect. So penalties it is.

A few minutes break is allocated for a breather to discuss who would take the penalties and in what order. It would be Georgia, then Beth, then Rachel, then you, then Chloe and then Alex for the first six, if all six are needed of course. Then the rest of the girls were also ordered, if more than five had to be taken. You had taken a few penalties in your time, all in shootouts, and you’d scored all of them. So you were pretty confident in yourself.

You stood next to Lucy at the end of the line, one arm wrapped around her waist as you watched Georgia set up to take her shot, hoping, praying it would go in. It didn’t, but you were still proud of the midfielder nevertheless she’d played a good game, and you had every faith in Mary in saving the one. Which she doesn’t even need to do because Oparanozie misses the target.

All of the England players scream when Beth slots it perfectly in the back of the next. 1-0 to England. When Alozie steps up to take Nigeria’s second, you hold your breath and when she skies it, you sigh in relief. Lucy quickly pressing a soft kiss to your head.

Rachel scores the next one, slamming it into the top left corner, however Ajibade also scores her one too. 2-1.

Usually when you take penalties, you’re not nervous. Not at all. But you can feel them tingling away around your body. You set the ball down and then close your eyes, quickly taking a moment to breathe, to block out all of the sound of the fans, and to focus on where you’re going to try and slot the ball. When you open your eyes, you focus on the opposite spot, to throw the keeper off, focusing on the bottom right.

You take in a breath and then strike the ball, to which it slots in beautifully in the top left hand corner. The keeper diving completely the wrong way. You run up and jump into Lucy’s arms, her pressing a soft kiss to your lips, which makes fans in the stands go wild. That’ll be in TikTok edits later, but you don’t care. After you, Ucheibe scores hers for Nigeria and then Chloe’s up.

You squeeze Lucy’s hand, if this goes in you’ve done it. You’re through to the World Cup quarter finals. And of course, Chloe Kelly slots it in and England are through. After an incredibly challenging, tiring game, you’d done it. England through to the next round, thank fuck. Nigeria put up a good fight, it was crystal clear they wanted it just as much as you did, the game truly could’ve gone either way.

After consolidating the Nigerian team, you get into the team huddle, standing in between Sarina and then Lucy on your other side, listening to the gaffer give her little post match speech before you have to give yours, a little bit of that aggressive, more dominant edge still clinging to your voice. As Lucy listens to you, she feels that urge cross her body again, the one that’s willing to do whatever you say. To be your good girl. It’s a weird feeling for her. Lucy has never, ever felt this way before. She’s not submissive. She never has been. But seeing you, like this, all commanding, angry and dominant it’s doing things to her and suddenly she craves for you to take charge of her, like you’ve done on the pitch.

After you’ve said what you’ve needed to, you look over at your girlfriend and notice that tiny glint in her eye which means she’s turned on, that makes you raise an eyebrow slightly, wondering how and why. But you just shrug it off, listening to what some of the other girls have to say about the game whilst Lucy’s eyes are fixed on the captains band sitting on your left arm.

A few hours later, you finally manage to get away from all of the girls, Lucy saying the pair of you need an early night. You make it up to your room, and then she’s on you, her lips immediately seeking out yours, kissing you passionately, but not rough like she normally is.

“Put your kit back on, especially the armband,” she breathes against your lips, causing you to furrow your eyebrows.

“You want me to put my dirty, sweaty kit back on? Seriously?” you ask, your tone incredulous, confused beyond belief.

“Mhm, please Y/n, put it on,” she begs, her eyes pleading with yours.

You look at her gone out. What the bloody hell is happening? Lucy had never ever begged you to do anything (unless it’s get her cake) in the entirety of your five year relationship. It takes you a few seconds to deliberate the idea in your head but with a soft sigh you nod and grab your bag that you brought up here earlier, just after the game before the dinner you’ve just had, to get it out of the way.

“Do I have to put my pads back on?” you question as you strip from the England gear you currently had on, getting back into your football kit from the match earlier.

“It’s up to you Y/n, you don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Lucy states softly as she watches you intently, her eyes glued to the armband that’s now sat back on your left bicep and she swears she feels her knees going weak.

You nod and decide against putting them back on, not actually needing them for whatever you’re about to do. The answer she gives you is not “very Lucy”, usually she would’ve told you exactly what she wants. For extra measure, you put your hair back up into the style of a rather neat bun, much neater than the ones Lucy does in her hair are. You look at yourself in the mirror quickly before glancing back at the brunette, something about seeing yourself in the armband has made that sense of pride and dominance return, exactly what Lucy wanted.

“This what you wanted hm Luce? Want to get me in my kit so I could take charge?” you had finally caught on to what she wanted, it just all clicked and fucking hell, taking charge in the bedroom, of Lucy is an incredibly hot thought.

“Please y/n, I’ll be a good girl, I promise, I need you,” she whines, her usual dominance having completely melted away. It’s almost like another woman is stood in front of you.

“Dirty girl, getting turned on by seeing me get all angry and aggressive on the pitch. I should just leave you here, wanting and not getting anything,” you hum before gently tucking a strand of hair behind her ears, a direct contrast to your words.

“No, please, don’t, I need you baby, I’m so desperate, please.”

God she sounds so so so pretty when she whines, when she begs. You’ve never heard it before, and you want to hear more of it, you’ll make sure Lucy does her fair share of begging before she gets anything from you.

“You sound so pretty when you beg Luce, what you desperate for hm? What do you want me to do?” you ask, fully aware that you’re being a tease, but you know she’ll do what you want.

“I want you to fuck me, please Y/n.”

A small groan slips past your lips at her admission, normally you’re the ones saying those words, begging her to have her way with you. Now it’s the other way around and you love it and of course, you’ll give her exactly what she wants, eventually.

Your lips find hers, kissing her rather hungrily before you start to trail your kisses down the column of her throat, occasionally dragging your teeth over her skin, making her shiver.

“Fuck baby, please stop teasing,” Lucy pleads, her head tilted back slightly, allowing you to have slightly better access to her neck.

“And why should I do that hm?” you question before connecting your lips again, the kiss all teeth and tongue, with you in full control. Your lips stay intact as you reach the edge of the bed, only breaking apart for a few seconds to push her down gently, before kissing her once more.

Lucy whimpers into the kiss, wanting so much more than she’s currently getting, needing you to push her over the edge and give her the orgasm she so desperately craves, that she so desperately needs.

Momentarily, you break the kiss to take off her top, and then her sports bra, carelessly throwing them over your shoulder. You ignore her boobs, for now, going back to roughly making out with her. She lets out another little whimper into your mouth a few seconds later, needing more.

“Is there something wrong Lucia?” you hum teasingly, using her full name which you know has an effect on her, knowing full damn well what she wants.

“I need more Y/n,” she mewls, now having taken to squeezing her thighs together to get a touch a friction.

When you see what she’s doing, you click your tongue in disapproval before then gently pull her legs apart, slotting yourself in between them.

“Oh really? Is what I’m doing not enough for you?”

“N-no, please, give me more.”

Puppy eyes was the last thing you’d expect to see from Lucy, but god they do look adorable. And you find yourself giving in, very slightly to what she wants. Your mouth finds her right boob, gently kissing over it before flickering your tongue over her nipple. After a few little flicks, you tug it between your teeth, then run your tongue over it, soothing the small amount of pain. Your hand finds her left one, kneading the flesh delicately ahead of your fingers twisting and lightly pulling at that nipple, whilst the other one gets taken properly into your mouth for you to suck on.

A mix between a moan and a whimper leaves your girlfriend’s throat and it sounds beautiful, like music to your ears. You keep up with what you’re doing for a while before pulling away and kissing down her chest, littering it with love bites, then you move onto trailing your tongue down her stomach to the waistband of her joggers. Quickly, you get them off of her, leaving her in just her boxers, a very noticeable dark wet patch on the front of the dark cotton.

“Fuck look at you, I’ve hardly touched you and you’re soaked. God if I’d have known if me being captain would make you this needy, I would’ve begged Sarina to have been captain for the Euros too.”

That makes Lucy whine again and squirm a little, wiggling her hips, trying to get you right where she needs you.

“Stop teasing me, please baby,” she whimpers once more, growing stupidly needy.

At first, her whines and her begging you sounded perfect, you loved them, but now, they are getting on your nerves very slightly, just like yours must do to her. Now you realise why she doesn’t like it when you’re whiny and are begging her insistently. Not when you have a plan in place of what you’re doing and she’s just being so goddamn impatient.

“No, stop fucking begging,” you practically growl, but she doesn’t listen, whining a little more and bucking her hips up to almost remind you where you’re so desperately needed.

“Please baby, I need you, it aches, fuck me, please.”

You raise your eyebrows at her so blatantly ignoring you, your hand finds your captains band on your arm and you tug it down before forcing it into Lucy’s mouth.

“There. Now we’re all nice and quiet hm?”

Lucy moans around the gag of your armband and it’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard, you just hope that you get to hear it again. Sure enough, when your mouth finds her inner thighs after pulling down her boxers, that same noise spills from her throat.

A small smirk tugs onto your lips as you kiss, lick, nip and suck at Lucy’s inner thighs, not darling to inch just that little higher and run your tongue through her soaked folds. Admittedly, you were savouring every second of this, you’d never ever taken her like this. She’s always been sat on your face and there was no time to tease her, so you’d never properly gone down on Lucy.

When you finally do decide to give her a little of what she needs, languidly swiping your tongue over her drenched slit, avoiding her clit like the plague, the prettiest little sound slips around the gag of your armband, something like a moan mixed with a small cry.

You go back to then sucking at her inner thighs, just wanting to tease her a touch more before you really give her what she wants. Lucy’s frustrated, but she doesn’t vocalise it, not whimpering around the gag, nor does she show it, her hips remain planted on the bed, hands screwed up in the duvet: not daring to touch you without your permission. For her your dominance was exhilarating, your armband in her mouth silencing her was what she thought was the hottest thing ever and the sheer confidence you have in taking charge does in fact have her incredibly needy; evidenced in just how soaking wet she is.

After a few seconds, when you see no physical reaction from Lucy to your teasing, you smile and lean up to press a soft kiss to her cheek.

“Such a good girl for me hm? Don’t worry sweetheart, I’ll give you what you want,” you coo before dipping your head back down towards her dripping sex.

Those two words, “good girl” have Lucy literally melting in a puddle for you. Involuntarily, her pussy clenches around nothing, clit throbs with need and the moan she lets out - which is slightly muffled - is perfect.

At the revelation that Lucy has a bit of a praise kink going on, you smirk, you’re going to use that to your advantage. As your tongue once again swipes over her slit, your eyes remain locked onto your girlfriends, watching how within seconds of your ministrations, they roll into the back of her head.

“My good girl,” you husk against her cunt before your lips find her clit, sucking just how she likes as one of your fingers teases around her entrance, not dipping inside just yet.

The possession mixed with the praise has Lucy letting out another moan around her gag and as soon as your lips finally find her clit, a muffled cry tumbles from her lips.

You continue with sucking her clit, pushing just one finger inside of her, groaning into her pussy as you feel just how tight she is, how warm she is. When she’s in charge, Lucy rarely lets you finger her, she always forces you to use your mouth and nothing else, it’s because she’s never been much of a receiver. Always giving. But when she’s does want something, the quickest way to get her off is to eat her out, so she’d make you do just that: so she could get back to fucking you quicker.

Slowly, you pump your finger in and out of her, a second one soon joining the first, feeling her walls stretch a little to accommodate it. You can already feel Lucy getting closer to the edge, so you slow down even more. You want to draw this out. You want to prep her to take the strap.

“Doing so well for me sweetheart, think you can take a third for me?” you ask her softly, pulling your mouth away from her clit for just a few seconds, still fucking her with your fingers.

Eagerly, Lucy nods. She wants to take it, to be your good girl, she knows she can take them too. You smile at her and then once again dip your head back down. Your tongue swirls over her clit gently, before you go back to sucking the sensitive nub.

A third finger slowly joins the second two, and your curl up all three of them, causing the right back to let out another muffled cry around the gag. The stretch for her is perfect, the feeling of taking three of your fingers is sensational, it feels like heaven. With each thrust of your fingers, Lucy can feel them hitting her g-spot, which makes her face contort with pleasure.

You speed up your fingers and your sucking, determined to push her over the edge, wanting to make her cum hard. Lucy’s knuckles turn white with how hard she’s now clenching the duvet, her back arching slightly, eyes now squeezed shut, stars dancing behind her eyelids. With what sounds to be like a moan of your name around your armband, she comes undone, harder than she ever has done. Just like you wanted.

Your movements slow, gently rocking your fingers inside of her, so she can ride out her orgasm. You press a gentle kiss to her clit before pulling your mouth of her, so you can murmur gentle reassurances to her as she comes back down from her high.

“You did so good for me sweetheart, such a good girl,” you state softly whilst gently easing your fingers out of her, which you clean by sucking on them.

The sight of you sucking and moaning around your fingers, coated in her cum, has Lucy getting worked back up again, which you obviously notice.

“You need more hm?” you tease as you ease your armband out of her mouth, pulling it back on to your left arm.

“Please, w..want you to use the strap,” she admits breathlessly, her voice slightly hoarse from your armband being in her mouth for so long, her eyes watching as you put it back where it belongs: slightly wet from her mouth.

“Hmm, do you think you deserve it?”

Lucy simply nods as she watches you pull down your shorts, the underwear you’re wearing are very damp, a clear sign of your own arousal.

“Me too, you’ve been my good girl after all,” you hum, pressing your lips to hers, giving her a soft peck.

When you’re at home, the strap usually resides in the bedside table, and Lucy always wears it. When you’re on camp, you have it in a bag that sits in the wardrobe with all of your other toys. You give Lucy a few more pecks, before getting off the bed and walking over to the wardrobe. The doors are slightly ajar on it as you must’ve forgotten to close it after grabbing your kit bag from it earlier.

You find the bag which is sat in the back of the cupboard and pull it forward, undoing the zipper on it. There’s not many toys in there, you have way more at home, but neither you nor Lucy were going to weigh your suitcases down when you flew out here, to Australia, with sex toys.

The harness gets pulled out of the bag and then so does a seven inch sleek black dildo that you’ll clip into the front of it. You make your way back over to the bed, the two items in hand and then nestle yourself in between Lucy’s spread legs.

You set the things down onto the mattress and then remove your shirt, tossing it somewhere in the room, leaving you in just your sports bra and underwear.

From the countless times of watching Lucy put the strap on, you know exactly what you’re doing. Your underwear come off and then you attach the harness to your hips. The brunettes eyes beneath you are fixated on your own soaked cunt, which you’re not even thinking about, your full focus is on giving your girl exactly what she needs.

“See something you like sweetheart?” you taunt whilst clipping the dildo into the slot at the front.

“Mhm, you’re so beautiful Y/n. Can you take your bra off, please?” she asks softly, her hand coming to paw at the material gently.

You smile and gently take her hand, kissing her knuckles before letting it go and removing the final item of clothing, which also makes Lucy smile.

“That what you wanted Luce?”

“Yes, y..you look perfect, I love you,”

“I love you too sweetheart.”

You gently kiss her forehead, then her cheek, the tip of her nose and then her lips. You kiss her for a few seconds, it’s gentle, unlike your earlier, more rougher, demanding ones.

After those few seconds, you pull away and then adjust your positioning, running the head of the dildo through her folds, which causes her to gasp.

“Fuck baby, please, n-need you,” she whimpers as you line the tip up with her entrance.

“Shh sweetheart, I know, you’re being so good for me,” you croon before you slowly push the strap into her, your eyes fixated on her pussy swallowing it, the sight getting engraved into the back of your mind.

In all honesty, you thought Lucy had never looked more beautiful. Her eyes almost closed, lips parted, one hand gripping the sheets, the other now gripping onto one of yours, her hair sprawled out against the pillows, her face contorted in sheer pleasure, her abs slightly tensed, the sounds escaping her and the way her pussy looks swallowing your goddamn strap. This was something you were going to remember for a long, long time.

“Shit Luce, you’re so tight, doing so well for me,” you grunt as you start to slowly thrust in and out of her, your eyes moving up to her face, to watch her reaction to your movements.

The praise has her letting out a small whimper, which turns into a loud moan as you start move. Her hand that’s in yours grips it a little tighter, for her it feels weird, she feels so full, stretched so beautifully, she could definitely get used to the feeling.

“F..fuck, feels so good Y/n. Harder, please,” she begs softly and it’s impossible to not give her what she wants, after all she has been good for you.

You increase the force of your thrusts, little grunts occasionally tumbling from your lips, like the ones that you make when lifting in the gym and Lucy fucking loves it. She loves hearing the little noises you’re making, knowing you’re enjoying it just as much as she is.

“Taking me so well, my good fucking girl.”

Lucy’s eyes roll into the back of her head, the praise making everything so much better for her, she can feel herself getting closer, her small moans getting louder, her walls gripping your strap tighter.

“Baby I’m close, p..please don’t stop,” Lucy pleads, her legs shaking slightly from the force off the orgasm that’s she’s so close to letting go of.

“Not yet sweetheart, hold it for me,” you demand softly whilst pushing your strap deeper into her, your hips snapping slightly faster. Selfishly, you don’t want her to cum yet, for it to all be over. You don’t know if you’ll ever get to experience this again, to watch Lucy take your strap, to be the one on top, the one in charge. So you just want to draw this out for as long as possible and you know Lucy will listen to you.

Lucy doesn’t complain, she just simply nods, opening her eyes properly to look at you. To her you look perfect. Your eyes are completely darkened with lust, watching her, your hairs up in that damn bun, some of the strands coming loose and sticking to your forehead and your captains armband is sat snug around your left bicep: you look like heaven to her.

“Look at you, look so fucking pretty taking my cock,” you practically growl, your eyes now back to watching her pussy take the toy as you pound into her faster, which makes her moans even louder.

“Y/n, please c..can’t hold it any longer,” she whines, her hand tightening in yours to ground herself as she knows her orgasm is going to be intense. She can feel it.

“Fuck, cum for me sweetheart, cum all over my cock.”

With a sudden cry, Lucy comes undone, her legs shaking slightly from its intensity, her eyes now rolled back, her back arched a little and her face contorted up in sheer bliss. You don’t know where to look, her face, her cunt, at the way her abs tense. You keep your eyes on her face, watching how it twists with pleasure, your hips slow down, still gently rocking the toy in and out of her, allowing her to ride out her high.

“That’s it sweetheart, such a good girl,” you hum, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead before ever so gently easing the toy out of her sensitive pussy, revelling in the way it grips your strap harder, as if it doesn’t want you to leave.

Once the toy is out, you quickly undo the harness and then toss it off, throwing it onto the floor. You then lay down next to your girlfriend, wrapping your arms around her gently, allowing her to cuddle into you, whilst you pressed gentle kisses all over her face.

“T..that was incredible,” Lucy managed to exclaim a few minutes later after coming down from the most incredible high she’d ever experienced.

“It was, my god you looked so beautiful Luce, who knew seeing me be captain could get you so worked up,” you couldn’t help but tease, watching as she responds by playfully rolling her eyes.

“Hm, I don’t know what can over me, it was just like hot, watching you take charge of everyone on the pitch y’know?”

“Mhm, I think I’ll beg Sarina to let me be captain forever now if that happens every time after we have a game.”

Lucy swats your shoulder playfully, her eyes watching as you pull off the armband and toss it onto the nightstand.

“No, I couldn’t focus on the game at points because all I was focused on was you baby,” she points out with a small smile, her lips gently pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“Oh really?” you ask, rhetorically, as you think back to the game earlier that day which feels like it was years ago. “That actually makes a lot of sense, I knew something else was going on earlier, it has been the entire tournament,”

“Yep, ever since the Haiti game. I’ve been wanting you to take charge for a little while now,”

“Well I definitely want to do it again,” you suggest with a little smirk crossing your lips, making her chuckle.

“Ditto baby.”

With that, it didn’t take the pair of you that long to fall asleep, all tangled up in each other, your bodies exhausted from the match you played in earlier and then the incredible sex you’d just had. As you slept, there was one thing you both knew for certain: you’d been taking charge much more often.

[p0orbaby]

I Feel Alive in the City That You Like

summary: who doesn’t like a bit of gossip?

warnings: none !

a/n: something short for our fav actress, with a little cameo from ale

word count: 1.5k

part 1

-

The bar is tucked away in a side street that smells of sea salt, diesel fumes, and hot pavement—the kind of place you only find by accident or through someone who’s “been coming here for years.” It’s called La Mala Vida, which feels pretentious in an almost charming way, like it’s trying to convince you it’s grittier than it actually is. Inside, the walls are painted a deep crimson that almost glows under dim lights. The ceiling is low enough to feel oppressive, and every table is crammed with people leaning too close, talking too loud, the air thick with cigarette smoke despite the supposed indoor ban.

Your friends are already at a corner booth when you arrive, practically shouting over the music—something vaguely Latin remixed with techno—and you spot Frances first, her sharp red lipstick and a blonde bob so precise it could have been cut with a laser. She’s dressed for drama, as always, in a vintage YSL blazer so cropped it’s practically a shrug, paired with leather trousers that look like they might have been painted on.

“We’ve been here for an hour,” she announces the moment you approach, her tone loud enough to carry over the din of the bar. “I thought you’d forgotten about us.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” you reply, pulling off your jacket—a lightweight cashmere thing that you’d brought only because the evening forecast had mentioned a breeze. You hang it over the back of the chair, careful to keep it away from what looks suspiciously like a puddle of spilled sangria.

“She thought you were avoiding us,” Georgia chimes in, already halfway through her first glass of wine. She’s dressed in an oversized white button-down that she’s knotted at the waist, paired with frayed denim shorts and silver hoop earrings big enough to be used as hula hoops. The effect is effortlessly cool, though you know for a fact she spent 45 minutes in front of a mirror before leaving her hotel room.

“I don’t avoid people I love,” you say, sliding into the seat between them.

“Except Alexia,” Frances says, her grin razor-sharp. “When she’s too far away for you to stalk”

“Frances,” you warn, though your voice lacks any real edge.

“Oh, please. Don’t pretend we haven’t all read the headlines. ‘Football Star’s Mystery Lover’—that was my personal favourite. Or was it the one about how you’ve been jetting between continents like a lovesick heiress?”

“Stop,” you groan, but Georgia is already laughing, her wine glass wobbling dangerously in her hand.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “We didn’t fly all the way to Barcelona just to interrogate you. But we will be taking the opportunity since we’re here”

“You didn’t fly here to see me at all,” you point out. “You’re here for Georgia’s ridiculous ‘self-discovery retreat’”

“It’s not ridiculous,” Georgia protests, though her tone suggests she knows exactly how ridiculous it is. “It’s wellness. I’ve been stressed”

“You live in a Soho loft and do Pilates every morning,” Frances deadpans. “What could you possibly be stressed about?”

“Life,” Georgia says, as though this explains everything.

Frances rolls her eyes, but before she can respond, the waiter arrives to take your drink order. You glance at the menu briefly before asking for a vodka lime and soda.

“Make it a double,” Frances adds for you. “She’s going to need it”

As soon as the waiter disappears, Frances leans forward, her elbows on the table, her chin resting on her hands like a particularly nosy house cat.

“So,” she says, drawing out the word. “How’s Alexia?”

“She’s fine,” you reply, keeping your tone deliberately neutral.

“Fine?” Georgia echoes, clearly unimpressed. “That’s all we get?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know,” Frances says, her grin widening. “Something juicy. Like how she’s already convinced you to move here and start a life of domestic bliss”

“Or how she’s secretly awful in bed,” Georgia adds.

“She’s not awful in bed,” you blurt out before you can stop yourself, and both of them pounce on the admission like hungry wolves.

“Ah-ha!” Frances crows, pointing at you. “See, now we’re getting somewhere”

“Stop being so tight-lipped,” Georgia says. “You’re glowing. Look at you. That’s post-orgasm skin”

“Stop it,” you hiss, though your face is already burning.

“Don’t be shy,” Frances says, leaning back in her seat with a satisfied smirk. “We’re your friends. We’re just curious.”

“She’s curious,” Georgia corrects. “I just like making you uncomfortable”

“Why do I hang out with you?” you mutter, though the question is purely rhetorical.

“Because we’re fabulous,” Frances says.

“And because we rescheduled our chemical peel to spend time with you,” Georgia adds. “Now, come on. Give us something. What’s she like when the lights are off? Or on, we won’t judge”

“Jesus Christ,” you groan, covering your face with your hands.

“Fine,” Frances says, waving a hand dismissively. “If you don’t want to talk about that, tell us what you two do when you’re not shagging”

“Normal couple things,” you say.

“Like what?” Georgia presses.

“Like… cooking together,” you offer.

“Boring,” Frances declares.

“Or watching TV”

“Also boring”

“Taking her dog for walks?”

Frances sighs dramatically, as though your relationship is personally offending her. “You’re no fun”

“I’m plenty of fun,” you argue.

“Prove it,” Georgia says.

“How?”

“Call her,” Frances says, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Right now”

“She’s busy,” you protest, though your hand is already hovering over your phone.

“She’s not too busy for you,” Georgia says in a sing-song voice, grinning like the devil.

Frances leans back in her seat, folding her arms. “Prove it. Call her. Right now. Or we’ll start making assumptions, and you know we don’t hold back”

“Fine,” you snap, swiping your phone off the table. “But if she gets annoyed, I’m blaming both of you”

“Blame away,” Frances replies, looking positively gleeful.

You don’t bother stepping outside for privacy—this is what they wanted, after all. The bar’s music fades to the background as you scroll for her name, your thumb hesitating for a brief moment before you press call.

She picks up on the second ring.

“Hola,” she says, her voice warm and slightly hushed, like she’s leaning in closer to the phone to hear you better.

“Hi,” you reply, already feeling the tension ease at the sound of her voice. “What are you doing?”

“Dinner with the team,” she says. “What about you?”

“Out with Frances and Georgia,” you say, shooting them a look across the table. “They’re being infuriating, as usual.”

Alexia chuckles softly, and even though the distance between you stretches across an ocean, it feels like she’s right there. “What did they do now?”

“They’re insisting I call you so they can be nosy,” you admit, ignoring the way Frances pretends to yawn theatrically beside you.

“Well, I hope I’m living up to the hype,” Alexia says, the smile evident in her tone.

Frances immediately leans forward, practically yelling into the phone. “She’s not doing you justice, Alexia! We’ve heard nothing spicy”

You slap a hand over the phone’s speaker. “Frances!”

Alexia’s laugh is louder now, melodic and unrestrained. “Is that Frances?”

“And Georgia,” you say, glaring at them both as they descend into a fit of giggles.

“Hi, Alexia!” Georgia shouts, waving as if Alexia could somehow see her through the phone. “How do you feel about long-distance frustration?”

“Ignore them,” you say, lowering your hand from the speaker, though Frances has already leaned halfway across the table.

“Alexia, quick question,” she calls into the receiver. “On a scale of one to ten, how insufferable is she as a girlfriend?”

“Frances!”

“Eleven,” Alexia replies without missing a beat, her voice warm with amusement.

Frances clutches her chest in mock offense. “A woman with taste. I approve”

Georgia’s cackling now, practically falling off her chair. “She’s funnier than you. I like her more already”

“Okay, this was a mistake,” you mutter, though you can’t help the way your lips curl into a smile.

“You’re handling it well,” Alexia teases. “And you haven’t hung up yet, so maybe you secretly enjoy it”

“Maybe I just like hearing your voice,” you counter, softer this time.

There’s a slight pause, just long enough for Frances and Georgia to exchange exaggerated ooohs like a pair of primary school children.

“I miss you,” Alexia says, the sincerity in her voice cutting through their antics.

“I miss you too,” you reply quietly, forgetting for a moment that you aren’t alone.

Frances doesn’t forget. She leans so close you can feel her breath on your shoulder. “Tell her you love her!” she stage-whispers, loud enough to draw stares from the next table over.

You shove her back, pressing a palm to your forehead. “I’m hanging up now”

“Coward,” Frances mutters, smirking.

“Goodnight,” Alexia says, and you can hear the smile in her voice.

“Goodnight,” you reply, the word carrying more weight than usual.

When you finally set your phone down, Frances and Georgia are watching you like vultures circling a carcass.

“Admit it,” Frances says, taking a triumphant sip of her drink. “You’re smitten”

“Completely pathetic,” Georgia adds.

You don’t even bother denying it. Instead, you flag the waiter down for another drink, shaking your head as they burst into fresh fits of laughter.

[meazalykov]

yearning

sydney lohmann x f!australian!reader

warnings: no smut but it is very suggestive.

you’re tearing down the wing with ball seeming to be glued to your pink covered foot as bayern’s red and white streaks past along with lyon’s all white. after passing the ball up to lea from the right wing, you look over at sydney in the midfield.

something inside of you wants to call her name, not for the play, but because it’s been festering in your chest for months, a weight you can’t spit out. 

you won’t. 

you never do.

all of your bayern teammates notice the yearning clawing inside you, shredding your calm as your eyes give your feelings away. sometimes it is worse since you’re not one of the germans at bayern which means that national breaks are a cruel exile to australia. 

you’ll fly back alone, no shared hotel rooms, no stolen glances on planes with her. every touch, syd’s fingers grazing yours passing a bottle, her shoulder bumping you in a huddle…sears you raw. 

you see it in her too in the way her eyes linger when you tie your pink colored boots, her jaw clenches when you joke with klara or literally any other one of your teammates. everyone is done with it. georgia groans when you stare too long. klara mutters “just ‘do it’ already” when sydney lingers too close, adjusting your sleeves of your kit jersey for no reason. 

the air between you chokes them, but neither of you breaks.

this game right now is against lyon. it is the champions league quarterfinal. you’re in sync with the girl in midfield. yes, you and syd with passes clicking like you share a brain, but it doesn’t quiet the ache. 

after the 70th minute a lyon player tackles you, too close, her hand brushing your arm as she rises. she murmurs something, eyes glinting, playful. 

“you need to watch yourself, sexy”

what the fuck? anyways, you ignore whatever the lyon player is saying and jog back to position. however, nearly half of the pitch witnessed that interaction and the way that lyon’s defensive player checks you out. 

sydney’s stare burns your skin. you glance over and her face is confused, lips pressed thin, eyes dark with something feral. 

the whistle ends it, 2-1 lyon, and you’re drained from the loss.in the locker room, teammates scatter to showers and physios or just chatter. 

sydney’s silent, packing her bag with sharp, angry jerks. you wait, heart pounding, until it’s just you two inside of the locker room when everyone leaves. 

“syd,” you say, voice scraped raw. 

she doesn’t look up so you say, “what’s going on?”

you get silence with just the rustle of her bag. 

your chest tightens, yearning curdling into something sharp. 

you step closer to her sitting figure

“talk to me. i can’t do this if you shut me out.”

syd’s hands freeze. when she looks at you, her eyes are a storm. 

“why don’t you go entertain your lyon friend?” her voice is low, biting, laced with something that stings.

you blink, thrown. 

“what? i didn’t even…”

“don’t,” she cuts you off, standing, close enough you smell her sweat, her shampoo, feel the heat radiating off her. 

“i saw it. we all did.”

anger surges, hot and reckless, “you think i give a single shit about some random player? i didn’t even hear what she said mate. i was more concerned about the team, especially you.”

syd’s breath hitches, but she doesn’t fold. 

“then why does it feel like you’re open to everyone else except for me?” her voice cracks, raw, exposing the hurt beneath, “i’m going insane wanting you, and you’re just there like it doesn’t affect you.”

you snap. 

“doesn’t affect me?” you’re yelling now, voice bouncing off the lockers. 

“i can’t fucking function around you, syd. every time you’re close, it’s like i cannot even function properly since i get so awkward. i go home, i lie there, thinking of you, hating myself because i can’t just say it. i need you, and it’s breaking me.”

silence slams down, heavy, charged. syd’s eyes search yours, wide, unguarded, and you’re so close now, noses brushing, breaths tangling. 

“what do you mean, you need me?” she whispers, not soft, but urgent, a demand carved from desperation.

you swallow, throat tight. 

“i see you every day in training or at klara’s place and it’s like a knife in my chest because i can’t touch you or love you the way i want to syd. i mean i’m in love with you, and it’s fucking destroying me.”

she makes a sound which is some half-gasp, half-sob and then her hands are on your face, rough, trembling. 

“you absolute idiot,” she says, voice shattering, “i’ve been in love with you since you came here.”

time stops as you crash into her, or she pulls you… whatever it was it’s a blur, but your lips meet, fierce, all teeth and starvation, months of want spilling over. syd’s mouth is warm, tasting of mint, and you groan, low and ragged, as she presses herself closer. 

you back her into the lockers, metal clanging, her hands sliding under your shirt, nails biting your skin. you hiss, wanting the sting, wanting everything she could give you. you tug her ponytail free, her hair spilling wild, and she moans which is a a wrecked, desperate sound when you pull it, just enough.

“god,” she gasps, lips grazing your jaw, and you kiss her harder, swallowing her words. your hands roam, tracing the hard lines of her waist, the curve of her hips, and she arches, all heat, all need. 

it’s not enough. you could drown in her and still want more. syd’s fingers dig into your back, and when you nip her lip, she growls, pulling you tighter, smirking when you shudder. 

“so needy,” she murmurs, but her eyes are soft, like you’re something sacred.

you break away, panting, forehead pressed to hers, eyes locked. 

“i hated seeing her near you and the way that her eyes trailed down your body,” she admits, voice raw, “i wanted to break something.”

you laugh, breathless, and kiss her neck, slow, deliberate, feeling her pulse jump. 

“i didn’t see her, syd. just you.”

she shudders, hands gripping your hips, and you’re kissing again, slower, deeper, like you’re unraveling each other. the german’s tongue brushes yours, and you feel it everywhere, heat pooling low, your skin buzzing. 

you want to climb inside her, lose yourself in every inch. syd’s hands slide lower, teasing, and you whimper, helpless, as she chuckles against your mouth, dark and knowing.

unfortunately… reality creeps in. your teammates could walk in, staff could interrupt. you pull back, gasping. 

“we can’t… not here,” you say, but your hands stay on her, refusing to let go.

she nods, but her thumb traces your lip, and you nearly cave. 

“tonight,” she says, voice like iron. “come to my place.”

your heart lurches. 

“tonight,” you echo, a vow.

at least the yearning now it has a place to land after being in the air for so long, ever since you joined the team only a year prior.

masterlist

[lupinqs]

CHAPTER SIX ━━ A Little Too Much

❀ ━ pairing: paige bueckers x oc (jo jacobson)

❀ ━ word count: 6.2K

❀ ━ warnings: like maybe an allusion to sex???

❀ ━ links: my masterlist, nobody gets me masterlist

❀ ━ author’s note: paige bro lock in

PAIGE SINKS deeper into the couch, the familiarity of the apartment wrapping around her like a hug. It’s nice being back, the familiar scent of vanilla (Jo’s candles) filling the space. The TV is tuned to some random college football game—an SEC game that Paige really couldn’t care less about.

Aubrey’s sitting at the other end of the couch, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, her arm resting on the back cushion. A bag of chips is balanced precariously on her knee as she scrolls through her phone, glancing up at the screen every now and then to half heartedly comment on a play.

“Nah, ain’t no way Tennessee gets this one,” Aubrey says, tossing a chip into her mouth. “Georgia, no debate.”

Paige snorts, squinting at the game for a moment. “Ion know, the Vols are up.”

“They won’t be,” Aubrey insists, waving the bag of chips for emphasis.

Paige hadn’t realized how much she missed all of this until now. She’s spent the last month in LA, focusing on her rehab at a state-of-the-art facility her team insisted on. The work has been grueling—hours of physical therapy every day, pushing her body to its limits, trying to rebuild what she’s lost.

But being away from her teammates has been harder.

It’s the first week of October now and she hadn’t seen any of them since early September, right before she flew out. Sure, there were texts and FaceTimes—especially with Jo, who’s practically made it her mission to keep Paige from feeling too disconnected. But it isn’t the same as this: sitting on the couch, arguing over nothing, being in one of her best friend’s presence.

“You said Jo was working out with Yanna and Caroline, right?” Paige asks, glancing over at Aubrey. She’d be lying if she said she isn’t anxiously waiting for Jo to get her ass home.

“Yeah, they been at it all day. Jo’s on this whole new grind—something about gettin’ faster footwork or whatever. I dunno, think she just wants to be really prepared for the season, cause—” Aubrey nods to Paige’s knee and Paige nods—Jo is certainly gonna have a huge role for the team this season.

After a moment, though, Aubrey sends her a look, asking, “Why, though? You impatient?”

Paige just rolls her eyes, saying, “It’s just been a minute.”

Aubrey hums, though she doesn’t sound entirely too convinced.

Paige doesn’t much care. She cares more about the fact that she has to sit through nearly the entirety of this football game before she hears the door click open, her head snapping up instinctively. She can hear Jo before she sees her—her sneakers squeaking against the floor, her laugh that’s as bright and familiar as sunlight as she mutters something to—presumably—Ayanna or Caroline, who must still be in the hallway. For a second, everything else washes away—the announcers on the TV, Aubrey scrolling lazily on her phone. Paige’s focus narrows completely, landing squarely on the figure stepping into the apartment.

When Jo finally comes into view, it’s like Paige can breathe again. Except, maybe not, because Jo looks exactly the same and yet somehow better then Paige remembers. Her ponytail is a little messy, strands clinging to her forehead, and her tank top is soaked through with sweat, outlining the lean strength of her frame. Her cheeks are flushed pink and her eyes are sparkling with that post-workout adrenaline.

Paige feels her stomach plummet, a sudden, unwelcome realization inching into her mind. She thinks Jo looks beautiful like this.

“Oh my God, you’re here!” Jo’s voice breaks through Paige’s thoughts, light and high-pitched with excitement. Her smile is wide, open, and utterly disarming, like she’s been waiting for this moment for weeks. She drops her gym bag onto the floor without a second thought and breaks into a jog toward Paige, her arms already outstretched.

Paige stands automatically, her body moving before her brain catches up. And then Jo is there, colliding into her with so much force that Paige actually stumbles back half a step. Jo’s arms wrap around her shoulders, strong and unhesitating, and before Paige even knows what’s happening, she’s being pulling into the kind of hug that makes her feel like melting.

Jo smells like strawberry shampoo and a hint of sweat, a mix that should probably be unappealing but isn’t. Paige’s face ends up pressed against the side of Jo’s neck, and, for a moment, she lets herself completely sink into the embrace. Jo is warm and solid and so full of life, and Paige feels herself relax in a way she didn’t even realize she needed.

But there’s something else, too: a tangle of emotions she can’t—or maybe just doesn’t want—to name. Paige’s hands settle on Jo’s waist, and she pulls her closer, tighter, without even thinking. Her heartbeat picks up, thudding erratically in her chest. She tells herself it’s just the adrenaline of being nearly barreled into.

But then Jo’s laugh bubbles out, muffled against Paige’s shoulder, and Paige feels a little breathless.

“I missed you so much!” Jo squeals, her arms tightening around Paige like she’s never letting go.

Paige smiles, closing her eyes for just a second as her nose nudges Jo’s ponytail. “I missed you too,” she murmurs, and there’s a softness in her voice that surprises even her.

The warmth of Jo’s hug, the way her fingers curl slightly against Paige’s back, makes something twist low in Paige’s stomach. It’s almost too much, but at the same time, not enough. Paige doesn’t want to let go, doesn’t want to think about why this feels different than hugging Aubrey or Azzi earlier.

From behind them, Paige hears Aubrey mutter, “Yeah, maybe a little too much.”

Paige’s eyes snap open, heat rushing to her face. She freezes, her arms going stiff for just a second, but Jo doesn’t seem to notice. Paige’s heart pounds as she wills herself to stay calm, to keep her expression neutral as she pulls back, not too abruptly but enough to put some space between them.

Jo beams, her hands lingering on Paige’s shoulders as she grins up at her. Paige feels like she might die under the weight of it.

“Shit,” Jo says suddenly with realization, stepping back and gesturing to herself. “I’m disgusting right now. I should’ve warned you before jumping on you like that.”

“You’re fine,” Paige says quickly, and then, because she feels like she should say something normal, she adds, “I mean, it’s not like I haven’t seen you sweaty before.”

Jo laughs, the sound bubbling up effortlessly. “Still. Let me shower, and then we’re hanging out. No excuses. I missed you!”

Paige can’t help but smile back, even as her thoughts churn. Jo is grinning at her like she’s the only thing in the world that matters, and Paige feels something warm and unsteady settle in her chest. She watches as Jo grabs her bag and heads toward the bathroom.

Once she’s out of view, Paige sits back down on the couch with a huff. She hates that her heart is still beating too fast.

Next to her, Aubrey hasn’t moved, one arm draped lazily over the back of the couch as she watches Paige with a look that makes the blonde shift a little. The football game continues on, the last few minutes of the fourth quarter blaring, but Aubrey doesn’t seem the least bit interested in it anymore.

Paige finally breaks the silence, blurting out as she turns to Aubrey, “What did you mean by that?”

Aubrey raises an eyebrow. “By what?”

Paige frowns. “That comment you made. About me missin’ her too much.”

Aubrey doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she leans forward, grabbing the remote and lowering the volume on the TV. When she settles back into her seat, she gives Paige a look—a knowing look that immediately puts Paige on edge.

“She has a boyfriend, bro,” Aubrey says simply, as if that explains everything.

“I know that,” Paige snaps, the words leaving her mouth too quickly. She feels a flush creeping up her neck and shifts in her position, trying to look casual, unbothered. “Obviously I know that.”

Aubrey’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Do you?”

“Yes,” Paige says, her voice sharper now. She crosses her arms over her chest, defensive without meaning to be. “’Course I do. What’s your point?”

Aubrey tilts her head, the corner of her mouth twitching like she’s holding back a smirk. “My point is,” she says slowly, “you look at her like she’s the sun or sum. And don’t act like you don’t, ’cause I just saw it.”

Paige scoffs, but it’s weak, almost half-hearted. “That’s fuckin’ ridiculous,” she says, though her tone wavers. “She’s, like, my best friend. I’m just—” She falters, trying to find the right words “I’m just happy to see her. It’s been a month, bro. I’d be like that with anyone.”

“Really?” Aubrey asks, raising her eyebrows. “Uh, you didn’t act like that when I picked you up from the airport. Or when Az came by earlier.”

“That’s different,” Paige says defensively. “You and Azzi—she’s—” She stumbles over the words, annoyed that she can’t articulate why it is different without making it sound worse.

Aubrey doesn’t look convinced. In fact, she looks entirely unimpressed. “Uh-huh,” she says, drawing the syllables out. “P, I warned you about this when you two first moved in together.”

Paige remembers. She remembers when they were moving her bed during the summer and Aubrey had told her seriously, “You cannot fuck Jo Jacobson.”

At the time, Paige had laughed it off. The idea seemed absurd then. Sure, Jo was beautiful, but she was also a freshman and just getting her feet wet here, and Paige would never do that. She would never do that. She still would never do that. But then, Paige hadn’t ever thought of her in that way.

Now—

“I don’t like her like that,” Paige says, her voice firmer than she feels. “I don’t.”

“Uh-huh,” Aubrey says again, in the same tone as before. “Look, I’m not saying you’re doing it on purpose. But, bro, if you do have feelings for her—and I’m not saying you do—don’t let ’em mess with your head. Or the team.”

Paige bristles at that. “I don’t have feelings for her,” she insists. “And even if I did—which I don’t—it wouldn’t affect the team. I’m not that stupid.”

Aubrey shrugs, unfazed. “I’m just saying. Jo’s solid with Asher. Like, really solid. You don’t wanna go down that road.”

Paige feels her chest tighten, and she doesn’t know if it’s because she hates how Aubrey is talking to her or because some small, traitorous part of her knows Aubrey might be right.

“I’m not goin’ down any road,” Paige says, forcing her voice to stay even. “You’re reading too much into this. I’m just happy to see my best friend again. That’s it.”

Aubrey doesn’t press further, but her silence is heavy, loaded with unspoken skepticism. Paige tries to focus on the last few minutes of the football game, but the TV screen practically blurs in her vision as her thoughts spiral.

She tells herself Aubrey’s wrong. That her excitement to see Jo is completely normal. That the way her heart has leapt when Jo walked in the door was nothing more than relief after a long time apart.

But deep down, she can’t shake the way her stomach had flipped when Jo smiled at her. Or the way her chest felt too tight when Jo hugged her, like her ribs were trying to contain something that didn’t want to be contained.

Paige doesn’t know what to call it. She doesn’t want to know.

JO’S EYES remain glued to the screen, but she doesn’t even notice what’s happening in the episode anymore. She missed this—missed the nights spent lying next to Paige, the “sleepovers” which are really just code for one of them being too lazy to walk back into their own rooms and crawl into their own beds.

Jo’s massaging Paige’s knee, the rhythm comforting and almost mechanical now. It’s just what they do; she’s done it a thousand times over since her surgery, though it’s been a month since she’s done it now. She knows how much it helps Paige, and it’s not like it’s anything weird—just a friend doing something nice for another friend, a friend that’s gone through this same thing before and knows what can help.

She’s not thinking about the way Paige’s leg feels under her palm, how soft the skin is, how warm. She’s not. She’s not thinking about how close they are, how the smooth skin of Paige’s thigh rests under her cheek, or how the way Paige moves so naturally beside her makes her chest feel tight in a way that doesn’t make sense.

Paige lets out a soft sigh, and Jo doesn’t quite know why it sends a little flutter through her. She shakes it off quickly, adjusting her position to be more comfortable, still massaging her knee.

They’re almost at the end of first season of The Vampire Diaries now, and Jo’s surprised that Paige has stuck with it. She thought, with all the complaining, that Paige would have tapped out after a few episodes, but here they are, still going strong. Jo knows her well enough that she can tell that Paige has actually started to get into it. Maybe not as much as Jo, but enough to make comments and roll her eyes at the sometimes ridiculous drama.

“You can’t actually be Team Damon, P,” Jo says, shaking her head against Paige’s thigh, letting her fingers glide over the tender muscle beneath Paige’s knee. “Like, come on, girl. Stefan is clearly the better choice.”

Paige shifts slightly, and Jo glances up to see the blonde smirking down at her. Her cheeks are a little flushed and Jo can understand why—it’s hot in here. Maybe they should turn the heat down. “Ion know, JoJo. Damon’s a lot more interesting.”

Jo huffs, “Yeah, well, interesting isn’t always the best option. You need someone who’s steady, who’s good for you.”

“Who’s ‘boring,’ you mean?” Paige’s voice is light, a teasing edge to it.

Jo shakes her head again, laughing a little. As she does so, her lips lightly graze the top of Paige’s thigh. She doesn’t think anything of it. But then she feels Paige’s leg tense up. Jo stills her hand on her knee, thinking she might’ve done something wrong. But then, maybe a second later, Paige is relaxed again, and she doesn’t say anything, so Jo cautiously resumes the massage.

“Yeah, boring’s fine. It’s good. It’s better than all the shit Damon brings,” Jo says.

She can feel the subtle shift in Paige’s posture—she’s looking at Jo, eyes soft, gaze steady—and Jo quickly glances back at the TV, avoiding it. She doesn’t know why. Because it’s because if she lets herself look at Paige for too long, she’ll start thinking about things she’s not supposed to.

“Whatever,” Paige says after a pause. “I still think Damon’s cooler.”

Jo just snorts as she finishes working on the blonde’s knee, feeling the tension slowly melt away as her fingers work the muscles. A final press of her thumb into the joint elicits a soft sigh from Paige, and Jo grins slightly, the satisfaction of helping her best friend making it worth it.

Her fingers ache slightly from the pressure, but it’s nothing really. She looks at Paige briefly before flopping down beside her, her legs splaying out on the bed as she turns onto her stomach. The weight of the day and the long workout is starting to press in on her, and the soft, quiet room feels soothing. “My turn,” she says with a little grin, throwing a look over at Paige as she gestures to her back. It’s a deal they became accustomed to before Paige went off to LA—Jo massages Paige’s knee, and Paige takes care of the horrendous knots in Jo’s back. Simple.

Paige stares at her for a moment, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, before moving over to straddle Jo’s hips and starting to knead into her back. Jo tries to relax, exhaling deeply as Paige’s hands work their way over her tense muscles. It’s familiar and comfortable, and God, is Jo glad Paige is back in Storrs.

Paige’s fingers press into a particularly stubborn knot, right between Jo’s shoulder blades, and Jo winces, just a little. It’s the one knot that never seems to go away, no matter how much she tries to stretch or work it out. It’s been there for years, a stubborn thing.

“Still there?” Paige’s voice is soft, but Jo can hear the hint of concern.

The younger girl nods into the pillows. “Mmm, yeah, it never goes away.”

Paige hums in acknowledgement, and Jo hears her shift slightly. For a moment, she wonders if Paige is just going to stay where she is and work the knot from the outside, but then, to her surprise, she feels Paige’s hands move to the bottom of her t-shirt, sliding under the fabric carefully.

“Lemme get in there,” Paige murmurs lowly.

The words and the cool air against her skin sends a shiver down Jo’s spine, but she doesn’t pull away. Paige’s touch is so familiar, so comforting, that even the shift in how they’ve positioned doesn’t feel strange—at least, it shouldn’t. She can feel Paige’s fingers move under the fabric, creeping up her spine near her shoulder blade, right where she can press deeper into the knot. The pressure is sudden but not unwelcome. It’s exactly what Jo needs.

“Mmm, that’s better,” Paige says softly, her voice closer now, almost against Jo’s back, as she works the knot precisely. Her fingertips press firmly into the spot, working the muscle, easing the tendon.

The warmth from Paige’s fingers against her skin sends a wave of heat through Jo’s body, and she lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. The knot is finally loosening, and for a brief moment, she’s too focused on the sensation to even process anything else. Paige’s hands move with ease, like she’s done this a thousand times. And she has. Or, well, at least a few.

“You good?” Paige asks, voice soft but steady, like she’s concerned, and Jo feels a strange pull in her chest.

Jo hums in response, though it comes out softer than she intended. “Yeah, that feels perfect.”

For a moment, there’s silence between them, and all Jo can focus on is the steady rhythm of Paige’s hands as they move over her back, the weight of her stomach settling into Jo’s muscles. The room is even warmer now—they really should turn down the heat. Even if it’s Connecticut, it’s only October. That, or maybe it’s just the proximity, the closeness of Paige’s body to here. Jo doesn’t know what it is, but her heart’s not beating the way it usually does.

Paige’s hands slide back up, pressing into the tender spots along Jo’s shoulder blades, and Jo bites her lip, trying to ignore how good it feels.

And then, without thinking, Jo shifts slightly, a small motion that presses her chest just a little closer to the bed. With the movement, her body aligns a bit more with Paige’s, and suddenly the space between them feels too small, too close. She can feel Paige’s breath against her back, steady and warm, and Jo’s pulse quickens despite herself.

“God,” Jo mutters. “You’re good at this.”

Paige’s fingers stop their movements for a moment, as if processing the words. “It’s nothing,” she says, but there’s something different in her voice. Maybe it’s just how close they are, or maybe it’s the weight of the silence hanging between them, but Jo’s pretty sure she hears a shift in the way Paige speaks. A slight tension in her voice that Jo can’t explain.

Eventually, Paige finishes working the knot, her hands pulling away slowly. Jo almost feels a pang of disappointment, but she can’t place why. She’s just relaxing, just letting herself unwind. It’s nothing.

Paige lies back down next to her, the space between them still feeling a little smaller than it should be. Jo turns her head to meet Paige’s gaze, their faces just inches apart.

“Better?” Paige asks, her voice soft and almost too quiet. Her fingers trail lightly down Jo’s spine, slipping out from under her shirt with a gentle touch that sends a small shiver through Jo.

Jo smiles a little, nodding. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “Thank you.”

Paige nods, her lips lifting at the corners a little before Jo turns her gaze back to the TV. She tucks her hands under her cheek as she lays on her side, eyes lazily watching the screen. Damon and Elena are fighting over something—per usual.

She doesn’t even notice at first when Paige shifts, her leg brushing against Jo’s under the covers. And then she slides a little closer, her shoulder brushing against Jo’s arm. Her face is even closer now, and Jo’s aware of that. She can feel her breath against her skin. It catches her a little off guard, but it’s not weird. It’s just how they always seem to end up—close.

“I missed you, Joey.” Paige’s voice, so soft, echoes through the room.

Jo glances up, meeting her gaze. It makes her smile. “I missed you too.”

And she did—she got so used to being so close to her that it was terrible when she was gone for so long. So bad it felt like Jo was going through withdrawal or something. And it only makes it worse that she’s flying back out in a couple days and Jo is going to have the apartment to herself again.

Paige’s face is still close, her eyes searching Jo’s for something. They’re so blue, even in the dim lighting of the room, and they feel like an ocean Jo could easily drown in.

She doesn’t know why she does it, but she presses herself closer still, their chests touching now, Jo’s nose brushing against Paige’s neck. Their legs tangle more under the sheets, and Jo feels Paige wrap her arm around her waist gently, letting it rest there. Jo doesn’t mind.

It’s just them. It’s just how they are.

PAIGE WAKES slowly, the soft morning light streaming through the slats of the blinds casting stripes across the bed. Her body feels heavy, warm, and there’s a comforting weight against her arm. Blinking her eyes open, she shifts her head on the pillow and glances down. Jo is still asleep beside her, her face soft in the pale light, her features slack with peace.

Jo looks… pretty, Paige thinks, her thoughts still hazy with sleep. Her hair is tousled, sticking up slightly at the crown from no doubt a restless turn in the night, but it only makes her look softer, less put together in a way that feels intimate. Paige is half aware of the fact that her own arm is tucked under Jo’s, her hand resting near Jo’s waist. Their legs are tangled together, too, her calf brushing Jo’s under the covers.

Paige doesn’t move immediately. She doesn’t want to. It’s warm like this, comfortable, and even though the logical part of her brain tells her to pull away, to avoid making it weird, she stays where she is.

Her gaze lingers on Jo’s face, on the slight curve of her lips, the freckles dusted across her nose that are barely visible. There’s something unguarded about Jo in the morning, something vulnerable and even sweeter than she is when she’s awake.

Last night drifts back to Paige’s mind. The massages, the feel of Jo’s hands on her knee, the feel of Jo’s back under her hands. The way Jo told her she missed her, too. Paige had meant it when she told her—she’d missed Jo more then she thought she would during her time in LA. But it’s not just that. There had been something else in the air last night.

Maybe it’s just the shift of being apart for a month, she tells herself. That’s all. It’s just the way things feel different when you come back to someone after being away. Things will settle back into place eventually. They always do.

Jo stirs slightly in her sleep, her brow twitching, and Paige instinctively stills, not wanting to wake her. The younger girl murmurs something unintelligible and shifts closer, her head tilting toward Paige’s shoulder, and Paige’s breath catches for half a second.

The buzz of a phone breaks the quiet, cutting through the gentle hum of the morning. Paige blinks, her thoughts scattering, and she glances toward the nightstand. The phone buzzes again. She assumes its hers—she gets texts at odd hours from basically everyone. Without thinking, she reaches out, fumbling for the phone blindly without lifting her head.

Her fingers close around the cool device, and she squints at the screen as she opens it, not wearing her glasses yet. By the lockscreen, she immediately can tell that this is not her phone, though—it’s Jo’s. She’s about to close it and put it back when the name at the top of the screen makes her freeze. Ash.

Her stomach twists. She knows that name and she knows it well. Asher. Jo’s boyfriend.

Maybe she doesn’t mean to look, maybe she does. Either way, the messages are right there, impossible to ignore.

Ash 💓

Hi baby I know it’s early

Just wanted to say I miss you

and love you

And I can’t wait to see the media day flicks you better send me them all

Paige stares at the screen for a long moment, her chest tightening in a way she doesn’t—but also might—understand. She knows she should stop looking, that this is a complete violation of Jo’s privacy, but her eyes tracy the words again. Baby. I miss you. I love you. They feel like a slap.

She exhales sharply, locking the phone and setting it back on the nightstand. Her case flicks back to Jo, still fast asleep. Her face is serene and peaceful and Paige feels an overwhelming rush of emotions. It’s not jealousy. It’s not. She’s not jealous. She has no right to be jealous of two high school sweethearts that literally grew up next door together that are probably soulmates and are someday going to get married and have babies.

She’s not jealous of that.

But, nonetheless, the knot in her stomach doesn’t go away.

She unentangles herself carefully, shifting her leg and arm away from Jo’s, mindful not to wake her. Jo murmurs something again, soft and sleepy, and Paige pauses for a second before slipping off the bed entirely. She needs space. Air.

She pads to the bathroom, closing the door behind her and leaning against it for a moment. Her hands grip the edge of the sink, and she stares at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair is a mess, her face slightly puffy from sleep.

She shakes her head, turning on the faucet to splash cold water on her face. It doesn’t help much.

Paige forces herself to focus, to push away the strange feelings clawing at her. Jo is her roommate, her freshie, and, yeah, basically her best friend now. And that’s all this is. That’s all it will ever be. She needs to stop overthinking. She needs to get ready for the day.

But even as she brushes her teeth and begins to brush through her hair, her thoughts keep circling back to those texts. To Asher. To Jo. And to the way Jo’s body had felt so warm and close and right against hers just minutes ago.

PAIGE STANDS in front of the mirror in the locker room, adjusting her uniform and smoothing her jersey. The bold, navy #5 stitched on the front catches her eye, and for a moment, she lingers. It feels almost strange, wearing the jersey she won’t be able to play in this season.

Not that she hasn’t come to terms with it. Paige is good at keeping herself together now, even if the pang of frustration hasn’t entirely disappeared—and won’t, she knows, until she gets to play again. But she’s learned to deal with it, to channel her energy elsewhere. If she can’t be on the court, she can still be here—still lead, still help her team in every way she can.

Her hair is perfectly straightened, sleek and sharp, the way she likes it. Her makeup looks good, too—just enough to emphasize her sharp cheekbones and blue eyes, but nothing overdone. The uniform ties it all together, making her look just like the player she’s supposed to be, the one she still is even if she’s stuck on the sidelines.

She takes a couple mirror pics—her annual media day mirror pics. They come out well, and she posts them to Instagram with the caption “5’ll be back soon,” because it will. She will.

By the time the day is in full effect, Paige knows the drill: photos, videos, soundbites for promos. She takes a few solo shots first, her expression switching between serious and smiles for the camera. Then it’s duo photos—first with Azzi, then with Nika and Aaliyah, her classmates. They laugh and joke between snaps, Nika managing to pinch Paige and Aaliyah during one, probably getting a perfect reaction picture.

Whilst Jo is getting her photos done, Paige is off to the side, hyping her up. When she makes Jo laugh—loud and sudden, the kind that makes her throw her head back—Paige is the one who catches the photographer’s eye. He gestures for her to join Jo, saying how he likes their energy together. Paige does as he asks, coming into view of the camera.

They stand side by side, first posed with their arms crossed, meant to look tough and intimidating. Then, the photographer tells Jo to lean her arm casually on Paige’s shoulder. Jo does, and it feels so normal, so them, that Paige doesn’t even notice how close they are until the photos pop up on the photographer’s screen.

“Yo,” Paige says, leaning in closer to the preview image. “We look good.”

Jo grins, nudging the blonde with her elbow. “Yeah, we do.”

And they do. There’s something about the way they look together—Jo’s darker features contrasting with Paige’s lighter ones, their postures balanced between playful and powerful—that feels striking.

When the photographer tells them they’re done, Jo taps Paige on the back lightly, her touch lingering for a half-second too long. Paige pretends not to notice.

They continue on through a mix of photos, promo videos, and shorter interviews. Paige’s role as “Coach P,” as everyone’s begun calling her, doesn’t go unnoticed.

Nika, of course, has to chime in. “That girl ain’t my coach,” she mutters loud enough for everyone to hear, shaking her head while she stirs a few laughs from their teammates and some of the media coordinators.

Paige rolls her eyes but before she can respond, Jo cuts in, throwing her arms around Paige’s shoulders from behind and resting her chin right by Paige’s neck. “You’re right, Nik,” Jo says, her voice teasing as her arms tighten slightly around Paige. “She’s not your coach. She’s mine.”

Nika hisses at her in mock annoyance, making Jo laugh loudly as she lets go of Paige—though not before making sure to squeeze Paige’s shoulders fondly.

Paige hardly notices the way Nika flicks at Jo’s arm afterwards, or the way Jo sticks her tongue out at her. Instead, her brain replays the words—she’s mine.

Mine, mine, mine, mine.

It’s not like that, though. And, goddamn, she has to get herself together.

Luckily, she has an interview waiting for her, so she doesn’t have long to continue dwelling on it. Except, actually, she thinks she might be unlucky, because when she spots Celeste Sinclair waiting for her with that soft little smirk and a glint in her eyes, Paige almost groans aloud.

She supposes she did this to herself, though. It’s not like she didn’t know Celeste was one of their media girls when she started fucking her—it’s literally how they met.

As Paige approaches, Celeste’s eyes sweep over her, lingering just a fraction too long on the way her uniform fits. Paige notices it immediately, and begins to steel herself.

“Paige,” the redhead greets, her tone syrupy and professional, but there’s a flicker of something else underneath. Something Paige is very familiar with.

“Celeste,” Paige replies evenly, keeping her expression neutral. She folds her hands in front of her, trying not to let her irritation show. She doesn’t have time for this—doesn’t have the patience or willpower to handle another girl turned obsessed—but media day is about appearances, so she plasters on a polite smile and takes the mini mic Celeste offers her.

The questions start predictably enough. Celeste asks about her recovery, her plans for the future, how she’s adjusting. Paige answers each question with the kind of practiced ease she’s managed to master over the years. She talks about her rehab process, about staying focused, about how the comeback will be stronger than the setback. The words feel automatic now, almost rehearsed.

Still, it stings a little. Every time she’s reminded that she won’t touch the court this season, that she’ll have to watch from the bench while her teammates fight for another championship, there’s a flicker of frustration she can’t quite extinguish.

But she doesn’t let it show. Obviously.

Celeste presses on, asking something about how Paige is adapting to her new role as a leader from the bench, and Paige forces herself to smile through it. She talks about embracing the role of “Coach P,” about how it’s just as important to support the team off the court as it is on it. She doesn’t let her voice waver, doesn’t let any of the bitterness slip through.

When the interview finally wraps, Paige exhales quietly, ready to walk away—but Celeste steps closer, cutting her off.

“So,” Celeste says, her voice dropping just enough to make it clear this part isn’t for the cameras. “You’ve been busy out west, yeah? I—you haven’t been back at all lately.”

Paige sighs a little. “Yeah, well. Rehab and stuff. You know how it is.”

Celeste tilts her head. “I do. Still, I thought you might text or call or something. I left you a few messages, but you never answered.”

Paige resists the urge to roll her eyes. Celeste’s persistence is both flattering and annoying. Yeah, the sex had been good—but was it genuinely good enough for Celeste to continuously run after Paige when she’s made it more than obvious that she doesn’t really want her? Paige doesn’t think so.

But, then again, Paige is better with her tongue and fingers than Celeste is.

“Been busy,” Paige says again, brushing her off.

The red-haired girl doesn’t seem deterred, though. She leans in just slightly, murmuring, “Well, if you’re not too busy tonight or even later this week… ?”

Paige starts to shake her head, ready to shut it down. She has enough girls in her bed back in LA that she doesn’t need to make up for it here while she’s only back for a few days.

But then—her mind flashes to this morning. To Jo. To the messages from Asher. The pit that settles in her stomach when she saw the I love you and I miss you and the baby. Something about it still lingers, sharp and annoying, and Paige can’t quite shake it.

Before she really thinks about what she’s doing, she hears herself saying, “Actually, I am free tonight.”

Celeste’s face lights up, her smile widening. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Paige echoes, her tone casual, like she isn’t committing to something she’s already dreading a little. “I fly back to LA in a couple days, so tonight works.”

Celeste doesn’t bother hiding her excitement. “Perfect. Come over later?”

Paige nods and Celeste looks almost giddy as she finally walks away.

As Paige rejoins her teammates, sitting next to Jo, the brunette smirks at her a little, judging her arm and asking, “Again?”

Paige feels heat rushing up her neck and into her cheeks. “Stop, it’s nothing,” she says quickly.

Jo doesn’t press or tease her much like anyone else would, just letting out a little laugh under her breath before getting up for one of her own interviews.

Paige can’t help but watch her during it. And think.

Jo, asleep in her bed this morning, soft and peaceful and pretty. Jo, laughing loudly during their photoshoot. Jo, whose phone had lit up with messages from a boyfriend that Paige can’t stand to think about.

Her jaw tightens slightly, and she shoves the thoughts aside. She’s going to Celeste’s tonight. At least she’ll be doing something.

[mapiforpresident]

Could you please do one with Georgia Stanway where they are just hanging out with the Lionesses and their teammates make fun of them for being so in love? Thank you so much!!!

Lovesick

Georgia Stanway x reader

warnings: none

Summary: You and Georgia are utterly in love with each other.

"Sup, baby cakes," you said to Georgia as you walked into the room with your roommate for this camp, Keira. You plopped onto her lap and leaned in to give her a kiss that lasted too long for your friends' liking as Keira and Leah started to fake gag.

"Please never call me that again, what happened to 'babe'?" Georgia said as she wrapped her arms around you and pulled you further onto her lap, if that was even possible.

"Yeah, please never call her that again. That was just plain disgusting, mate," Lucy said as she sat down on the couch in the lounge next to you and Georgia. Leah and Keira sat in front of you on bean bags. You just stuck your tongue out at Lucy and then turned your head back to keep staring at your girlfriend with a lovesick expression.

"Knock it off with the lovesick eyes, it’s making me nauseous," Leah groaned.

"You’re just mad you’re the only single one again," Georgia quipped back as she finally tore her gaze from yours, in her opinion, the most beautiful eyes in the world.

"It’s not my fault Lucy got with Ona and Keira got with Laura. It was already bad enough having to see you two being all in love or whatever for the last two years."

"Don’t be all grumpy because your charm hasn’t worked on anyone yet," you said to Leah as Georgia kissed your cheek.

"What are you guys on about now?" Tooney said as she and Alessia came into the room and sat on the other couch.

"Just how Leah is always grumpy because she hasn’t gotten any recently," Georgia told her and Alessia with a laugh as Leah had her usual frown on, glaring at Georgia.

"People like my charm just fine, thank you very much," Leah responded back. As they continued talking, you and Georgia sunk back into your own world, your head tucked against hers as she kissed the top of your head.

"Did you have a good day, love?" Georgia asked, back to staring into your eyes as the others' conversation continued in the background.

"Yeah, except for when we were on separate rotations in the gym and I couldn’t stare at your ass in the shorts I like on you." Georgia laughed at your response right as you let out a yawn.

"Tired, baby?"

You nodded into Georgia's neck at her question.

"You want to go watch that new movie we haven’t gotten to watch yet and have some cuddles before Keira kicks me out again?" You nodded again as Georgia helped you stand up, grabbing your hand to lead you back to your room.

"You have one hour, Stanway, and don’t be doing anything nasty on my bed like last time, please," Keira called after you.

"It was faster to get to," Georgia called back just before you both stepped into the elevator.

[magicfootballstuff]

Best Mate (georgia stanway x reader) 

Summary: Georgia is your entire world, the love of your life. But you’re probably never going to be more than just her best mate.

(aka 12k words of angst and pining)

———

You’ve known Georgia since you were eleven.

Thirteen years in which you’ve been the closest of friends, through ups and downs. Thirteen years of playing for the same football teams, of carpooling to training and movie nights after matches and sharing rooms on away trips. Thirteen years, basically, in which you could have fallen in love with each other.

There’s a strange kind of irony, a punishment from the fates, that the first time you start to think of Georgia as anything more than your best mate is about three weeks before she moves to Germany.

You blame the Euros, naturally. That’s where you start to catch feelings. A long pre-Euro preparation camp, followed by weeks of heightened emotions as the Lionesses progress further and further into the tournament. It’s been a bonding experience for you all and you’re far closer to all the girls than you were a couple of months ago, but there’s been a shift in your relationship with Georgia specifically that you can’t quite explain.

It’s after the game against Spain that you first notice it. After coming back from behind, Georgia is the one who scores the winner to send you through to the semi finals and it might be the best goal you’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing live. It’s not just the goal - you’ve seen Georgia score screamers from outside the box on countless other occasions in your thirteen years of friendship - but the significance too.

It’s after this game that you actually start to believe you can win the whole tournament, that nothing is going to stop you until you get your hands on the silverware. And that belief starts with Georgia’s goal.

“I fucking love you, G!” you tell her in the dressing room after the game, still riding the euphoric high of beating Spain in such dramatic fashion.

Georgia grins at you.

“I love you too.”

Her words make you feel warm inside but you put it down to being happy about the result.

It’s not until later, lying alone in your bed back at the team hotel, unable to sleep because you’re still so pumped up from one hundred and twenty minutes of difficult football, that you hear Georgia’s words over and over again in your head and realise what it means.

I love you too.

Shit. You’re falling in love with Georgia Stanway. Your best mate.

What a cliche.

But you’ve spent thirteen years of friendship not being in love with Georgia. It should be pretty easy to brush any hypothetical feelings aside. Right?

———

It’s not. 

Actually, it turns out that acknowledging you have feelings for Georgia only makes them grow more.

You sit next to her on the coach on the way back from Bramall Lane after beating Sweden in the semi final. Around you, the whole team is jubilant, but all you can think about is how you can smell Georgia’s shampoo and feel the warmth of her thigh pressing into yours.

Shit, you’ve got it bad.

“We’re going to Wembley,” Georgia says. “Can you believe it?”

“Stuff of dreams, right?” you grin at her.

“And I get to do it with my best mate.”

The words ‘best mate’, while true, are like a knife to your heart and you’re reminded that you’ll only ever be Georgia’s best mate.

You try to shake yourself out of it. You’ve been Georgia’s friend for over a decade, you can keep being her friend, no problems at all. Because surely it’s better to be her friend than to risk messing things up and being nothing at all?

Except that she moves to Munich in two weeks. What if she loves it there, what if she prefers her new teammates to the old ones, what if she has such a good time there that she completely forgets about her old life in Manchester?

And you hate yourself for even thinking that. Georgia deserves to be happy. You know how excited she is to move abroad, how much she’s looking forward to the challenge of playing for a new team in a new league after spending so long at Manchester City. As her friend, you want the best for her, you want her to thrive in the new environment and be happy with her Bayern teammates as she settles into life in Munich.

You just hope that she doesn’t forget about you in the process.

“You’re quiet,” Georgia says, drawing you out of your own thoughts. “Wanna talk about it?”

You shrug, then give a half truth.

“Just trying to soak this moment in,” you tell her. “This feels special. No matter what happens in the final, I don’t want to forget the feeling of being part of this team.”

“I’m never gonna forget this,” Georgia says, sinking into your side and when she lets her head fall against your shoulder, you allow yourself just the briefest moment to imagine that she’s talking about this exact moment on the bus with you, not the summer of incredible football. “Would be pretty cool to win the damn thing though, right? One more trophy together before I leave.”

You never want this summer to end. Because as soon as it ends, Georgia leaves and you lose your best mate. You lose the person you’re in love with.

You have a feeling that this moment is going to be one that you come back to over and over again when you’re missing her, and you try even harder to commit every detail to memory.

———

Inevitably, the tournament does come to an end, but in the blur of playing an intense final at Wembley, winning said final, and the celebrations that continue long into the night, you almost forget that this is one of your last nights together with Georgia before she leaves for Germany.

Eventually, you and Georgia find your way back to each other, as you always seem to do. You have no idea what time it is, no idea how many drinks you’ve had, but it’s the early hours of the morning and most friends and family have either left or gone to bed, leaving just the players to continue their celebrations. You can still hear distant music and the occasional shout from downstairs, but you end up on the carpeted floor of a deserted hallway, side by side with Georgia. You’re sitting so close that the thighs of your outstretched legs are touching, and Georgia leans her head on your shoulder. You're holding hands too, though you don’t know who initiates that. Maybe it just happened because it felt right.

“I’m so proud of you, G,” you tell her, tracing your thumb across the back of her hand. “For everything - for today, for everything you did at City, for choosing to take a leap in your career.”

Georgia has hardly spoken about her impending transfer since it was announced, not while she’s been so focused on the tournament, and other than a couple of jokes this evening hoping that her new teammates will still welcome her after beating so many of them today, it’s been easy to pretend that she’s not about to move to another country. But now that the tournament is over, you have to face up to the reality sooner or later that your best friend is about to spread her wings and embark on a new journey that doesn’t involve you.

“Stop it, you’re gonna make me cry. And we’re supposed to be happy right now. We’re supposed to be celebrating.”

“I’m gonna miss you though. Bayern are lucky to have you.”

Your hand is still in Georgia’s, fingers linked together, though you don’t remember how it happened, whether it was you who took her hand or her who took yours. But her skin is so soft, especially on the back of her hand where you trace mindless patterns with your thumb.

“You’re still gonna be my favourite though, you know that right?” Georgia promises you.

“I am?” you ask, turning your head to look at her.

“Yeah, you’re my day one. Even when we live in different countries. I’m still gonna be talking to you every day.”

“I’m gonna be thinking about you every day,” you confess. “Every second, even.”

It’s only after the words slip from your lips that you realise you might have said too much, that you’re getting dangerously close to telling Georgia about the feelings that you promised yourself that you were going to keep secret.

“Yeah?” Georgia asks, her voice barely more audible than a whisper.

And just like the hand-holding, you have no idea who initiates what comes next, you’re just aware that your lips are on Georgia’s, or maybe hers are on yours, but who the fuck cares who leant in first when it feels this damn good.

Her lips are as soft as her hands, softer maybe, and she tastes like a combination of the free beer you’ve been drinking all night and something else, maybe optimism, if such a thing has a taste. But you’re very quickly unable to process much at all, senses overwhelmed, because Georgia is kissing you. Georgia, who you’ve been friends with since you were awkward teenagers with spotty faces and bruised knees, whose kisses are like a drug that you’re surely going to get addicted to because how could you not want to do this forever?

Just when you’re considering the logistics of pulling Georgia into your lap to continue this further, she pulls away from you, giggling as she wipes at her lips with captivating fingers.

“Shit, I’ve had way too much to drink,” Georgia says. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

She leans her head back against the wall behind you both, her eyes closed, and you try to keep yourself together, though your heart feels like a fragile sheet of glass that could shatter under even the tiniest amount of pressure.

“It’s fine,” you tell her, even though your lips still burn from her kiss. Even though you’re probably never going to be the same again. “We’re both drunk.”

———

The next morning, Georgia is wearing the most ridiculous pair of sunglasses you’ve ever seen, so huge that they mask half her entire face, but maybe that’s the intention because when she sits down next to you on the coach that’s supposed to take you to Trafalgar Square, she lets out a groan and says, “I don’t think I’ve ever been this hungover in my life.”

“I think I’m still drunk,” you admit. Your head isn’t pounding, it’s just swimming, the alcohol not yet worn off out of your system. It’ll hit you at some point today, you’re sure of that, and it’ll be torture. 

“Did I kiss you last night?” Georgia asks, pushing the sunglasses up onto the top of her head and frowning quizzically at you.

The way she asks, it’s almost like she doesn’t quite remember, and that stings a little. It’s pretty much the only thing you’ve thought about in the five drunken hours since it happened.

“Oh,” you say, trying to sound just as casual about it as Georgia does. “Yeah. I’d forgotten about that until you mentioned it.”

The lie is easy because there’s no way that you’re going to admit how affected you are by something as simple as the memory of her lips on yours.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Georgia grimaces. “Emotional day, and all that. We’re still cool, aren’t we?”

“Course we are,” you answer, and it’s mostly the truth - Georgia could commit a serious crime and you’d still think she was the best person on earth.

She’s got no reason to know the depth of your feelings for her, no reason to understand that kissing you might have done more damage than if you’d never got the chance to feel Georgia’s lips against yours at all.

———

You decide to confide in Keira.

“I think I’m in love with Georgia,” you confess, during pre-season, still ignoring the rumours that Keira might be moving abroad soon too.

“Our Georgia?” she asks for clarification, as if the idea is so ridiculous that she can’t quite believe what you’re telling her. “Georgia Stanway?”

You nod, and Keira presses on with her next question.

“Have you told her?” she asks.

“Why would I do that?” you scoff.

“Why wouldn’t you? What have you got to lose?”

“Only thirteen years of friendship,” you point out.

“Obviously it’s your decision, but worst case scenario she doesn’t feel the same and things carry on as normal.”

“Worst case scenario I lose one of the longest friendships I’ve got,” you interject to correct Keira.

“G’s not like that though,” Keira dismisses your worries with a wave of her hand. “She wouldn’t just cast you aside because of something like this. Anyway, she’s in a different country now. By the time you next see each other she’ll have forgotten all about it and things will be back to normal.”

“I’ll think about it.”

———

You do think about it. In fact, it’s pretty much all you think about.

One international break passes, then another, without you saying anything to Georgia about how you feel. You’re practically glued to her side for the whole of both camps, or maybe she’s glued to yours, because you somehow seem to end up alongside her even when you’re making an effort to not seem like you’re obsessed with her.

That plan clearly isn’t working, because on the penultimate night of the second international break, Keira brings it up when the two of you are alone.

“You’re not being subtle,” she tells you.

“Huh?”

“About G,” she explains. “If you think it’s not obvious you have feelings for her, you’re wrong.”

“Yeah but I’ve told you,” you point out, in a half-hearted attempt to justify the way you’ve probably been staring at Georgia with huge puppy dog eyes for the last week. “You know what you’re looking for.”

“Have you told Leah?” Keira asks, arching an eyebrow. “Because she asked me yesterday if you and Georgia were closer than usual so she’s noticed something too.”

“What did you say?” you demand, your eyes widening in panic.

“Don’t worry, I told her you used to be inseparable at City and that you probably just missed seeing each other every day. I think she bought it.”

You relax, or at least you try to, because if Keira says it’s obvious and even Leah has noticed your heart-eyes, then it can’t be long before Georgia herself realises, and then she’ll surely want to distance herself from you.

“Just talk to her,” Keira pleads with you. “You’re one of my best mates too and I hate seeing you like this. Even if nothing happens between you and Georgia, at least you’ll get closure by talking to her.”

You know that Keira is right. You’ve known Georgia for so long that you’d like to hope she won’t make things weird if you tell her how you feel and she doesn’t feel the same. You need an answer, so you can get over your feelings if nothing is ever going to happen.

And you fully intend to talk to her on the last night of camp. But you have a game tomorrow so you decide not to say anything for the risk of somehow upsetting the equilibrium of the team, and then before you know it Georgia is on a plane back to Munich while you return to Manchester and still nothing has been said.

Another time.

In the meantime, your heart continues to ache for something you’ll probably never get to have.

———

You’ll tell her when she comes home for Christmas, that’s what you decide. No England camp, no training or matches to use as an excuse for not telling her how you feel. Just two old friends catching up on what’s been going on in their lives - and so what if one of the most important thing that’s going on in yours is the depth of the feelings you currently have for your best friend?

You’re nervous for two full days before you see Georgia, your heart pounding each time you think of the enormity of the conversation you need to have with her. Telling her how you feel could change everything for better or for worse and even right up to the moment when you’re on your way to meet her, you’re still not sure if you have the courage to actually tell her.

You meet Georgia for lunch at Jill’s coffee shop, because Georgia’s only in Manchester for a few days before she jets off to Barcelona to see Keira and she wants to see as many people as she can while she’s back, but once you’ve both shared a bit of playful banter with Jill when she brings you your food and drinks, the two of you are left alone in a quiet corner of the shop.

“I’ve been dying to tell you something,” Georgia says, almost as soon as Jill leaves you alone. “I was gonna text you but I really wanted to tell you in person.”

She loves you too. That’s the first conclusion that your brain jumps to, because you can’t think of anything else she might have to tell you that’s important enough to be said face-to-face rather than over the phone.

She loves you too. She loves you t-

“I’m seeing someone,” Georgia announces.

And just like that, your heart shatters into a million tiny pieces.

She doesn’t love you.

“You are?” you ask, trying not to let the pain show on your face - this is supposed to be your best friend telling you that she’s found somebody, after all, and if you weren’t hopelessly in love with Georgia yourself, you’d surely be happy about this development in her life.

“Yeah, a guy back in Germany. His name’s Nico - he’s one of Syd’s mates so I met him through her. It’s still really new, like he’s not my boyfriend or anything, but we’ve been on a couple of dates and I think it’s going pretty well.”

“Cool,” you say, and then immediately kick yourself, because what kind of heartless idiot says cool when their best friend announces they’re dating someone, which is why you add, “I’m so happy for you.”

There’s a degree of truth to your words. Though on a selfish level you want Georgia to reciprocate your feelings and be happy with you, that’s not very likely to happen when you’re too much of a coward to tell her how you feel and obviously the most important thing is that Georgia is happy with whoever she chooses. You just hope that if it can’t be with you, that this Nico guy at least treats her well and gives her the happiness she deserves.

“Anyway, what’s going on with you?” Georgia asks, taking a sip of her hot chocolate. “Any big life updates?”

If there was ever a moment to tell Georgia that you’re in love with her, it would be now, when she’s inviting you to open up about what’s been going on in your life. But Georgia is clearly excited about this guy that she’s dating, or else she wouldn’t have waited until she saw you in person before making it the first thing she brought up, and what kind of friend would you be if you tried to ruin that for your own selfish reasons?

“Nothing much,” you answer with a shrug. “Nothing as exciting as your news. Anyway, tell me about Munich. Are the German lessons still kicking your arse?”

———

Keira calls you a few days later, when you know that Georgia is in Barcelona too, probably sharing the same news about her dating life with Keira that she told you the other day.

“You’ve seen G, then?” she asks, once you’ve caught up on your own lives.

“Yeah, we had lunch together a few days ago.”

“Did she tell you…?”

“About her new boyfriend?” you interject, completing Keira’s question. “Yeah.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Keira asks.

You can practically hear the pity in her voice and it cuts you almost as much as Georgia’s news about her dating life.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you try to dismiss it quickly, before you end up getting upset, or angry, or both. “She’s happy, that’s all that matters. I missed my chance.”

“Did you ever tell her?”

Keira doesn’t need to elaborate on exactly what she’s asking about and for that you’re grateful.

“No,” you answer. “But it’s too late now anyway.”

“I don’t think it is,” Keira counters. “It doesn’t sound very serious yet with this German guy.”

“Keira, if there was any chance she felt the same she’d have told me.”

“You mean like you’ve told her how you feel?” Keira asks.

Though you can’t actually see Keira’s face, you can picture it, one eyebrow arched at you and mouth twitching at the corners as she calls you out.

“It’s different,” you try to argue. “She wouldn’t be dating someone else if she had feelings for me.”

“Well if you aren’t ever going to tell her, maybe you should think about dating someone else. You know, a couple of the Barca girls are single. If you don’t mind the distance, I could put in a good word for you.”

There’s only one person you’d be willing to put in the effort required for a successful long distance relationship, and it’s Georgia. Besides, while Keira’s right that you’ll have to think about dating someone else eventually, it doesn’t feel fair to mess with somebody else’s feelings before you’ve at least tried to put your feelings for Georgia behind you.

“I’m good, thanks Ke,” you promise Keira.

“Well if you change your mind…”

“I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”

———

You don’t change your mind. Not about being willing for Keira to set you up with one of her club teammates, at least. You do, however, reconsider your decision not to tell Georgia about how you feel.

What can the harm be? If anything, the German boyfriend is a safety net because you have less optimism that Georgia feels the same, fully prepared for her to let you down. 

You phone Georgia when she’s back in Germany in January, entering the conversation with your heart already wrapped in bubble-wrap, in theory protected from being broken.

“Hey G, are you busy?”

“I’m never too busy to talk to you,” Georgia replies.

Your heart soars, giving you the courage to say, “Cool, well there’s actually something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Go on, I’m listening.”

“I was gonna say something when you were back in England but then you … well, you had your news and I didn’t want to ruin that.”

You pause and take a deep breath, glad that you’re doing this over the phone so that Georgia can’t see the sheer physical anguish you’re going through to psych yourself up to tell her this.

“I love you.”

There’s a moment of silence on the other end of the phone, then Georgia speaks.

“Aw, you big softie,” she teases you. “Love you too.”

You close your eyes and pinch the bridge of your nose. Part of you wants to leave it there, the idea of having to correct Georgia’s misunderstanding somehow even worse than having to admit you love her in the first place, but you can hear Keira’s voice in your head telling you to grow a pair and tell Georgia how you really feel.

“No, I … I mean that I love you,” you clarify. “Not just as a friend. Like, I’m properly in love with you.”

“Oh,” Georgia says. There’s silence on the other end of the line as she processes what you’ve told her, before she eventually repeats, “Oh. Shit, okay.”

It’s not exactly the reaction you were hoping for and though you’d prepared yourself for probable rejection, you couldn’t actually have prepared for the punch in the gut that is the pure surprise from Georgia, as if the idea of there being anything more than friendship between the two of you is so far-removed that she’s never once even considered the possibility.

“Forget I said anything,” you say quickly, eager to put this torturous ordeal behind you. “I’m just being stupid. It’s nothing I can’t get over.”

“No, wait!” Georgia blurts out. “It’s not stupid. It’s just … unexpected, I guess. You’ve surprised me, that’s all.”

“I’m sorry,” you mumble.

“No, don’t apologise! I’m glad you told me. The thing is, I do love you too. Just as a friend.”

And despite all the preparation you did beforehand to try to protect yourself from the pain of inevitable rejection, hearing Georgia confirm aloud what you already knew still causes your heart to splinter into tiny pieces. 

“Okay,” you say, trying to swallow the lump that’s formed in your throat. “That’s what I needed to hear. Now I can move on. And I understand if you don’t want anything to do with me-”

“Are you kidding?” Georgia interrupts you. “This doesn’t change anything. It takes courage to tell someone how you feel. I’m not gonna punish you for that. Anyway, you’ll always be super important to me. So unless you need a bit of space…?”

“No,” you’re quick to say. “I don’t need space.”

“Then you’re not getting rid of me anytime soon,” Georgia reassures you.

A single tear spills from your eye and you wipe it away quickly, even though Georgia can’t see you, because you’re worried that if you let it trickle the whole way down your cheek, it’ll be followed by a flood. The only thing that could make this more embarrassing that it already is would be if you burst into tears and Georgia heard you crying.

“Thanks, G.”

———

“I hate to admit it, but you were right,” you tell Keira, as you make your way out to the training pitch at St George’s Park on the first morning of the February international break, a few weeks on from telling Georgia how you feel - how you felt. “I just needed closure.”

“From Georgia?” Keira asks for clarification.

“Yeah. It turns out that finding out she doesn’t feel the same was a really quick way to shut down whatever stupid feelings I thought I had for her.”

“I think you’re being hard on yourself. It’s not stupid to catch feelings, especially for someone like G.”

“It was just emotion from the Euros,” you try to explain. “Then the distance. I was missing her. I got a bit carried away, that’s all. Anyway, she’s got her German guy now.”

“Not anymore,” Keira tells you. “That fizzled out a while ago.”

“It did?” you ask, your head jerking up in surprise when you hear the news. “She never told me that.”

“Yeah, well…” Keira trails off with a grimace, and you don’t need her to finish her sentence to understand what she’s saying.

“Right.”

You probably sacrificed your right to hear about Georgia’s personal life when you attempted to insert yourself into it by confessing your feelings for her. And if you’re completely honest, though you still talk to Georgia pretty often, there has been a slight shift in what you talk about, more superficial football chat and fewer deep conversations about all the other stuff going on in your lives.

Not for the first time since telling Georgia how you felt, you wonder if admitting your feelings was the wrong decision after all.

You hear footsteps behind you, the telltale sound of studs against concrete, and you turn to see Georgia, who inserts herself between you and Keira and drapes an arm around each of your shoulders.

“Hey guys, whatcha talking about?”

“The weather,” Keira is quick to save you the turmoil of having to come up with a lie yourself. “Thought it was cold in Barcelona at this time of year but I’d forgotten how much worse it is in England.”

“This?” Georgia scoffs, gesturing at the bleak grey sky above. “It’s tanning weather. I don’t know what you’re complaining about.”

“You’re mad,” Keira says, shaking her head as she eyes up Georgia’s bare arms.

“Not mad,” Georgia counters with a grin. “Just happy to be back in England with my best mates.”

You don’t know how it makes you feel, hearing Georgia refer to you as a “best mate” again. She’s clearly making an effort to make sure you know that nothing has changed, that your sudden confession of feelings a few weeks ago hasn’t made Georgia think any differently of you than she thinks of Keira. But it still stings a little, all those hours spent wondering what if and picturing a hypothetical parallel universe in which Georgia returns your affection coming to nothing.

In the back of your mind, it registers that a public friendzoning shouldn’t hurt if you were as over your feelings for Georgia as you claimed to Keira that you were, but you push that thought down for now.

———

You don’t actually speak to Georgia alone until later, hanging out in one of the communal recreation areas during the free time you get between a gym session and dinner.

“I meant what I said earlier,” Georgia says. “It’s good to be back together again. And we haven’t seen each other in person since…”

Georgia trails off, leaving you to fill in the rest yourself.

Deciding that the best way to get past the slight awkwardness is just to acknowledge exactly what happened and laugh it off, you say, “Since I told you I liked you?”

Georgia’s eyes widen, slightly surprised that you’re so blasé about the situation, but she passes it off quickly and says, “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry if I put you in a weird position,” you apologise. “I just needed to say something, even if you didn’t feel the same way, for peace of mind, you know? Just feelings that had been brewing under the surface since the emotion of the Euros…”

“Since the Euros?” Georgia interjects, surprised once again.

“Yeah, but I don’t feel that way anymore,” you continue, fully aware of the fact that your cheeks are starting to heat up with embarrassment. “I got closure and I moved on. I hope things can go back to normal between us.”

Georgia hesitates for a second, like she’s still trying to process everything, before her face splits open into a huge grin.

“Yeah, of course. Nothing’s changed at all.”

You try to remember what normal friends who haven’t admitted feelings for each other talk about, and your mind immediately wanders to the guy she told you about when she was last home. The guy that, if Keira is to be believed, is no longer in the picture.

“How’s it going with that guy you’re dating?” you ask, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear it from Georgia too.

“Nico? I’m not seeing him anymore. Like he was nice, but he was … I don’t know, he was just nice. There was no real spark, or nothing.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

It’s partially true. If you can’t have Georgia yourself, you want her to be happy with somebody, though you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t done some social media stalking after she told you about him and he didn’t seem like anybody particularly remarkable. In a way, it’s a relief to hear that confirmed by Georgia herself.

“Nah, it’s fine,” Georgia says, dismissing your words with a casual wave of her hand. “It wasn’t serious anyway. And I wanted to tell you it was over but I didn’t know how. I didn’t want you to think I was messing with your feelings, or anything.”

“I get it,” you assure Georgia. “But you don’t have to worry about that. There aren’t any feelings to mess with anymore. That’s all behind me.”

Georgia narrows her eyes just slightly, like she’s not quite sure she believes you, but it passes so quickly that you might have imagined it.

“Cool,” Georgia says. “Anyway, did you see that worldie I scored in training earlier?”

And so the conversation moves on, back to normal with your best friend.

———

It does go back to how it was before, for which you’re relieved. Your biggest worry about admitting your feelings for Georgia was that it would ruin your friendship if she didn’t reciprocate, so you’re glad that you’re still just as close as you were before Christmas.

The problem is that now you’re back to talking to Georgia all the time, whether that’s messaging each other, ganging up together on Leah in the group chat, or FaceTiming to have a general catch up about life, you’re starting to realise that maybe you’re not over your feelings for her after all.

Can you really be blamed? Georgia is like a human ray of sunshine, lighting up your world with her silly jokes and beautiful smile, even from another country.

Surely everybody who meets Georgia falls a little bit in love with her?

Still, Georgia has made it pretty clear that your relationship is never going to move beyond friends, and you’re content to have her in your life in whatever way she’ll allow you, even if you’re still harbouring feelings for her.

You don’t tell Keira either. She asks you about Georgia a couple of times, just casual questions in passing which you respond to with reassurances that you’re getting along like old friends again, that her rejection was enough to extinguish your feelings. If there’s one thing that’s more humiliating than admitting to your best friend that you’re in love with her only to be turned down, it’s having to deal with the constant pity of another friend concerned about a possible broken heart. So you tell Keira that everything is fine and she seems to believe you.

It is fine. You are fine.

(And if you tell yourself that enough times, one day it’ll eventually become true.)

———

You have a plan.

And it’s not a plan that you’re making because you’re in love with Georgia. It’s a plan for your best mate who lives abroad and you miss dearly.

So when Georgia’s Bayern Munich team draws Arsenal in the quarter final of the Champions League, you go straight to the airport from training on the day of the match and catch the next flight to Munich to watch her play.

As you sit next to Georgia’s mum in the stadium, who makes a comment about how nice it is that her daughter’s best friend has flown all the way from Manchester just to support her in one game, you try telling yourself that you’re not just here for Georgia, that you know Leah and Lotte and several of the other Arsenal girls and you’ve come to watch them too, but as the game progresses you’re only really watching one person. 

You’ve always known that Georgia is good - you’ve played alongside her for more than a decade at England age groups and then at City, watched her put in tackles that others wouldn’t dare to try and score goals from outside the box that would make anybody drool. But there’s a big difference between seeing Georgia play in training or when you’re on the same team as her, and actually watching her play. It’s an exciting match, a close match, with good performances from players on both sides, but you watch Georgia far more than any other players, your eyes tracking her even when she’s off the ball.

Bayern come away with the win, though only just, and you’re already trying to figure out whether you can make it down to London and back in a single night next week for the second leg that promises to be as exciting as the first. For the quality of football, you tell yourself, not just for another chance to see the best friend that you miss terribly.

You watch as Georgia greets the fans, smiling for pictures and signing shirts in the process, slowly making her way along the edge of the pitch until she reaches the area where you are. Her eyes search the crowd, no doubt looking for her mum, but she does a double take when she spots you and you carefully manoeuvre your way forward until you’re close enough to talk to her.

“What are you doing here?” Georgia asks, disbelief in her eyes.

“I’m here to see Leah,” you joke.

“Oh, I’ll just go and fetch her for you then, shall I?” Georgia grins at you. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

“Have you never heard of a surprise?”

Georgia just rolls her eyes.

“How long are you here for?” she asks.

“Just tonight,” you answer. “I managed to convince Gareth to let me have tomorrow off training so I fly back first thing. I wish I could stay longer, but we’ve got a league game at the weekend.”

“Are you coming next week?” Georgia asks. “To the second leg? At the Emirates?”

“Do you want me to come?”

Georgia nods enthusiastically and says, “Yeah, course I do.” She pauses, then adds, “Only if you want to, though. I know it’s a long way to travel.”

“I’ll be there,” you promise. A wicked smile spreads across your face as you add, “To see Leah again, of course.”

Georgia rolls her eyes and says, “Dickhead.”

“Be nice, Georgia,” Georgia’s mum interjects. “She’s come all this way to see you.”

“Relax, mum, it’s just banter,” Georgia protests. “She knows I love her really.”

Love. That word again. Because Georgia does love you, of that you’re certain, but not in the way you want her to.

But as you look down at your best friend over the barrier that separates the players from the fans, her brown eyes alight and a smile on her face as she stares back at you, you realise that you’ll take Georgia’s love, however much of it there is and in whatever form it comes in, just to see her smile like this.

———

The weather is terrible. Unrelenting rain turns the four hour drive from Manchester to London into a five and a half hour drive with limited visibility on the motorways. The prospect of spending an evening in this torrential downpour for at least the two hours of the match, possibly longer if the game goes to extra time and penalties, is brightened only with the knowledge that you get to see your best friend again just a week after you last saw her.

Unfortunately the game doesn’t go Bayern’s way. Despite bringing in a one goal lead from the first leg, that hard work is quickly undone by two Arsenal goals in quick succession in the first half. You’re largely neutral to the outcome of this game, except that you aren’t because you want to see Georgia succeed, and she seems to double her efforts when Bayern go behind, putting even more into every challenge, every pass, determined not to lose.

You’re kidding yourself if you think you’re a neutral fan in this game because when the final whistle goes and the Arsenal fans start celebrating a hard-fought victory, your heart aches for Georgia and what could’ve been. But Georgia is a ray of sunshine, even in defeat, and still makes time for all the fans.

When you finally get to see her, inside the stadium after she’s showered and changed out of her wet kit, you’re actually more disappointed than she is about the outcome of the game.

“That’s football, isn’t it?” Georgia says with a shrug, after you’ve exchanged a long hug and offered her your commiserations. “Thanks for coming down though. It’s good to see you again. I missed you.”

Her words make your heart flutter and you play it off the only way you know how - with humour.

“It’s only been a week, G,” you remind her, rolling your eyes.

“A week is a long time when we used to see each other every day,” she points out. 

“And whose fault is that?” you tease her.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Georgia rolls her eyes at you. “What are you doing now?”

It’s already late and the drive back to Manchester will be a long one so as much as you want to hang around and cherish every moment with Georgia, you know you need to get on the road soon.

“Gotta drive back home soon,” you tell her.

“To Manchester?” Georgia asks her eyes wide. “Nah, no way I’m letting you drive back through the night, especially not in this weather.”

“But…”

“No buts,” Georgia interrupts you. “I’ll text you the address of our hotel and you can stay with me. Drive back in the morning.”

You’re supposed to have training in the morning and you don’t want to imagine the trouble you’ll get yourself into if you don’t show up. But this is Georgia, and is a bit of a telling off from the coaches not worth spending a bit of extra time with her? Besides, can you not just set an early alarm and drive back home straight to the training ground in the morning? You’re not needed until ten anyway…

“Fine,” you nod, trying to pretend that the decision was harder than it actually was, pretending that you wouldn’t jump off a cliff for Georgia with very little hesitation if she asked you nicely enough. 

———

Georgia meets you in the lobby of her hotel just over thirty minutes later, already dressed in pyjamas with a battered pair of sliders on her feet. She grins when she sees you and reaches straight for your hand, not even bothering with a proper greeting.

“Come on,” Georgia says, dragging you into the lift and pressing the button for the fifth floor. “Before anyone sees you.”

The lift doors rattle shut and it starts to rise. You turn to Georgia and ask, “Is this gonna get you in trouble?”

Georgia grins at you, then replies, “Only if we get caught.”

Your heart is pounding in your chest, so loud that Georgia must be able to hear it echoing around the confined elevator too, and you’re not sure if it’s racing from the thrill of trying not to get caught or because Georgia’s hand is still in yours, her warm palm pressed against yours and your fingers tangled together. 

Does Georgia even realise that she’s still holding your hand, or the effect that it’s having on you? Because it’s pretty much all you can think about as the lift ascends, your heart hammering away until the rush of blood in your ears is so strong that you might faint.

The lift can’t reach Georgia’s floor soon enough, but eventually it does arrive and the doors slide open with a soft ping, and then Georgia is dragging you along the carpeted hallway until she reaches the door to her room.

“Shhh,” Georgia hisses as she unlocks the door, ushering you inside as she finally lets go of your hand. “In you go.”

You enter Georgia’s hotel room and she closes the door behind the two of you. It’s a pretty standard room, a large double bed in the middle, a tv screen hanging from the wall beside a door that leads to the adjoining bathroom. Georgia’s suitcase is open on the floor, a few clothes strewn across the floor and the chair in the corner.

“Do you want a shower to warm up?” Georgia asks you. “I can lend you some spare clothes to sleep in.”

“Yeah, sounds nice,” you nod, shivering as you’re reminded that you’re still wearing your rain-soaked clothes from earlier.

Georgia kneels beside her suitcase and rummages around in it until she pulls out a spare pair of shorts with the Bayern logo on them and an oversized t-shirt, which she passes to you as she stands up again.

“Spare towel is on the rail in the bathroom,” she explains. “Pass us your wet clothes when you’ve taken them off and I’ll hang them up to dry.”

You smile your thanks and wander into the bathroom, turning on the hot water of the shower before stripping out of your wet clothes. Wrapping a towel around yourself for warmth and modesty, you open the door just wide enough to pass your clothes through to Georgia, who promises to hang them up by the radiator to dry overnight, before shutting yourself in the bathroom and stepping into the shower to warm up.

You spend longer than you probably need to in the shower but the warm water cascading over your head is more than welcome and it gives you time to think. To think about the fact that you’re here in Georgia’s hotel room, about to spend the night in her bed, wearing her spare clothes, when you should really be halfway up the motorway back to Manchester right now.

For some reason, your conscience warning you against this appears in the form of Keira’s voice.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Keira’s voice asks you in your head. “You’re still trying to get over her. Is this really going to help?”

“It’s fine,” you whisper aloud into the empty bathroom, your words masked by the sound of water hitting the tiles. “We’re just friends and that’s fine.”

It’s far from the first sleepover you’ve had with Georgia. You’ve known each other for well over a decade and spent your teenage years sleeping over at each other’s houses gossiping and giggling well into the night until a parent came in to hush you and urge you to get some sleep. You’ve shared rooms on countless camps before, during tournaments with England or on away trips with Manchester City. And since growing up and getting your own places, there have been movie nights that ended late where it was easier for one of you to stay over instead of driving back late.

In short, you’ve shared a bed with Georgia many times before.

You haven’t shared a bed since you realised you had feelings for her last summer, and definitely not since you admitted those feelings a couple of months ago.

But if Georgia’s comfortable with it, then you shouldn’t have a problem either.

You finally get out of the shower, when you’re completely warmed through and your fingertips are starting to shrivel from being under the water for so long. You dry off and change into the clothes borrowed from Georgia, then spend a bit of time drying your hair with a towel and brushing your teeth using the spare hotel-issued brush still in its plastic wrapper, before you eventually unlock the bathroom door and return to the bedroom.

Georgia is sitting upright in bed looking down at the screen of her phone, bathed in the yellow glow of the bedside lamp. She glances up when she hears the bathroom door open and smiles, whether at the sight of you in her clothes or some other reason, you’re not quite sure. 

“You still like to sleep furthest from the door, right?” she asks, shuffling across to leave plenty of room for you in the bed beside her.

“You gonna protect me from intruders?” you tease her, as you clamber into the empty side of the bed.

Georgia is a few inches shorter than you, but you’ve seen the way she tackles on a football pitch and you have no doubt that she’d do better in a fight than you.

“Course I will,” Georgia grins back at you. “Ready for bed? Can I turn the light off?”

You nod and settle yourself down, adjusting the pillow and pulling the covers up over your shoulders as you roll onto your side. Georgia flicks off the light, then there’s some shuffling on her side of the bed, before you both fall still.

With your eyes not yet adjusted to the darkness, you can’t actually see Georgia more than just a shadow on her side of the bed, but you’re pretty sure she’s lying on her side facing you. 

And that’s when it truly hits you. You’re sharing a bed with Georgia, close enough to touch her, close enough to be able to hear her breathing, but knowing that you can’t do anything about the ache in your chest.

You have no idea how you’re going to calm your mind or your heart enough to be able to fall asleep tonight.

You shiver - whether that’s because you’re still cold or for some other reason like Georgia’s proximity - but it’s enough that she notices.

“Shit, are you still cold?” Georgia whispers into the darkness. 

“No, it’s fine,” you say, but your body betrays you again with another shiver.

“Come here,” Georgia says, though it’s her, not you, that closes the gap between you, shuffling her body closer until she can wrap her arms around you and pull your body against hers. Your feet intertwine at the bottom of the bed, hers warmer than yours, though she makes no complaint. “Nothing warms you up like a little cuddle.”

It’s not just a little cuddle though. This is a cuddle with your best friend who you’re more than a little bit in love with, who is kind enough to let you stay here despite the fact she could get in trouble, who has lent you her clothes and let you use her shower and now offers her arms to keep you warm. Your best friend who can surely now feel as well as hear the pounding of your heart as you nestle your body against hers beneath the covers.

Your eyes have started adjusting to the darkness and now you can see how close her face is to yours, your foreheads separated by barely an inch, and she’s staring right back at you, her warm breath hitting your face with each exhale.

“G…”

You breathe her name into the space between your lips, ready to tell her that you can’t do this, ready to admit that you still have feelings for her and that you need to leave, drive back to Manchester even though it’s the middle of the night and you’ve got no dry clothes, because otherwise you might do something that you regret.

But you don’t get the chance to say anything, because suddenly Georgia’s warm lips are on yours, soft and unmoving and so incredibly tentative, but also so right.

She lingers for a few seconds, then pulls back, her chest rising and falling more deeply than before with each breath, as she asks, “Sorry, I … was that okay?”

“You shouldn’t kiss me if you don’t mean it,” you say, just about ready to combust into tears, such is the intensity of the feelings overwhelming your entire body for the other girl. 

You don’t know what to expect from Georgia, but it’s definitely not what she says next.

“And what if I do mean it?”

Her voice is quiet, her words cautious. You’re so used to Georgia being her usual loud and effervescent self that you barely recognise the tone of her voice, but she sounds almost vulnerable.

“I’m so far gone on you, G,” you admit. “I thought I could get over you but I can’t. I need you to know that you could shatter my heart and stamp on all the tiny pieces and I’d still want to be yours. And if there’s even the smallest part of you that doesn’t mean it, then we should forget that ever happened and…”

You don’t get to finish your sentence because Georgia’s mouth is on yours again, hotter and more insistent this time. You gasp as she kisses you and her mouth opens too, her hand coming up to cup your jaw as her tongue swipes past your lips. The sound you let out is involuntary and you would be embarrassed, if not for the fact that you can’t think of anything except Georgia - her lips on yours, her body wrapped around you, her hands burning your skin.

Eventually, breathing becomes a necessity and Georgia must agree because she pulls back, though only far enough to lean her forehead against yours as she says, “I think I’m in love with you.”

“You think?” you ask, needing Georgia to be absolutely certain before you let yourself hope.

“I’m pretty sure,” Georgia corrects herself. “I’m still figuring it out but I’ve been thinking about it ever since you told me you liked me, and then when you showed up in Munich last week to surprise me … nobody’s ever done something like that for me before. And I can’t imagine anyone else making me feel the way that you do. You’re so much more to me than just a best mate. You’re … you’re everything to me.”

“Do you really mean it?”

Georgia nods.

“Whatever I have to do to convince you I mean it…”

“Just hold me,” you tell her, pushing your body further into hers and nuzzling your face into the crook of her neck.

“Just hold you?” Georgia asks, her hand squeezing your hip, and though you can’t see her face, you can picture the smirk on her face anyway.

You lift your head and use the element of surprise to roll Georgia onto her back, trapping her against the mattress with one of your legs framed on each side of her hips.

“You’ve got other suggestions, have you?” you ask her, raising your eyebrows at her as you sweep your damp hair out of your face.

Her hands settle on your hip tentatively, like she knows what she wants but isn’t quite sure yet whether it’s okay.

“I’ve got some ideas,” Georgia admits, fighting off a mischievous smile.

“Yeah?”

You lean down, still hardly able to believe that this is Georgia telling you that she loves you, that she wants you in the same way that you want her, as you press your lips to hers again. You hope that you’ll never get tired of kissing her because each time feels more magical than the last, as you slowly get used to the way that her lips move, to the things that make her breath catch in her throat as she kisses you back, and you know that there’s a whole other side of your oldest friend that’s now open for you to get to know and explore.

It would be so easy to get carried away, especially when Georgia’s hands, already dangerously low on your hips, start to slide lower, but there will be plenty of time for that, you hope. You’ve waited long enough, thirteen long years, for this to happen. You can wait a little longer.

You reluctantly detach your lips from Georgia’s and settle back against her side, one of your legs slung over her hips and her hands coming up to wrap around your back as you lie half on top of her.

“Another time,” you tell her, as you let your eyes flicker shut, knowing that sleep will be easy to come by with Georgia’s arms around you.

“That’d better be a promise,” Georgia murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple.

You don’t say anything, just laugh softly, and snuggle into her until sleep takes you both.

———

You wake in a different position, spooning Georgia from behind, but no less content than you were when you fell asleep. Georgia is still fast asleep, body rising and falling with each deep breath, and you manage to carefully extract your arms from around her so that you can reach for your phone on the bedside table to check the time.

You let out a soft groan when you see the time because you’re supposed to be at training in Manchester in less than two hours, and as perfect as last night was, finally getting an admission from Georgia that she feels the same, you now have to deal with the consequences of staying overnight in London instead of driving back home last night after the match.

You slip out of bed as quietly as you can, intending to go into the bathroom to call Gareth and give him some kind of made up excuse about why you’re not going to be at training. Something that doesn’t involve having to admit that you prioritised a girl over your career, even though Georgia is so much more than just a girl and last night will hopefully be the first of many that you get to experience falling asleep in her embrace, but you’re not so sure that your manager will understand or approve.

But before you can make it as far as the bathroom, you hear a sleepy voice from behind you.

“You’re not sneaking out on me, are you?”

You turn to the most adorable sight, a sleepy Georgia rubbing at her bleary eyes as she pushes herself up onto one elbow, her hair sticking up at an awkward angle on the side she slept on.

“No, of course not,” you promise her. You hold up your phone and explain, “I just need to make a call. I’ve got training today and obviously I’m not going to make it.”

“Come back to bed,” Georgia pleads with you.

“One sec,” you say, calling Gareth and lifting your phone to your ear as you sit down on the edge of the bed. 

When it rings through to voicemail, you’re a little relieved that you don’t actually have to talk to him in person, and you wait for the tone before leaving your message.

“Hi Gareth,” you say, deliberately rasping your voice as you try to sound as sick as you possibly can. “I’m really sorry but I don’t think I’m going to make it into training today. I’m not feeling well and I’ve already been sick once this morning. Sorry again. I’ll catch up with you soon when I’m feeling better. Bye.”

You hang up and toss your phone aside, ignoring the amused look on Georgia’s face as you get back under the covers.

“Pulling a sickie, eh?” she teases you.

“Shut up,” you grumble, though you still cuddle back into Georgia’s side, tangling your legs together beneath the covers once more.

From this close, you’re taken aback by just how pretty she is. Not that it’s the first time you’ve thought that, but seeing her like this, still slightly heavy-eyed from just waking up, looking back at you with adoration mirrored in her dark eyes, and being able to take it all in without having to worry about whether you get caught staring at her, is brand new. And with whatever limited time you have left before you inevitably have to get up and leave the blissful sanctuary of Georgia’s bed, you just want to kiss her, to feel her body against yours so that you have something tangible to remember this by when she has to go back to Munich.

“Can I kiss you?” you ask.

“You don’t have to ask.”

“I do,” you insist. “Because I can’t believe that last night actually happened. I’m still kinda waiting for you to tell me it’s just a prank.”

Georgia presses forward and her lips meet yours. It’s slower than the kisses you exchanged last night before bed, but you sigh happily into the kiss and bring your hand up to cup Georgia’s cheek. She lets out a little noise that you capture with your own mouth as your fingertips brush against a sensitive spot just below her ear and you make a mental note to revisit the spot later, perhaps with your lips and teeth instead, and vow to find every other spot that makes her whimper and melt into putty.

You make out for a while, a lazy exploration of each other’s mouths without any real destination. Having spent at least the last eight months dreaming of getting to spend quiet mornings in bed with Georgia, kissing until it’s hard to tell where you end and she begins, you’d be quite happy to keep doing this for the rest of eternity, but she eventually pulls back.

“I wish I didn’t have to go back to Germany,” Georgia says, echoing your own thoughts.

“But you love it there,” you remind her, trying to be the voice of reason, even though you wish you could both just exist in the cocoon of this hotel room for the rest of time.

“I love it here too.”

“Here being…?”

“With you,” Georgia clarifies, and your face cracks open into a big grin.

“Didn’t know you were so soppy, G,” you tease her. 

“Neither did I. I guess you bring it out in me.”

“Charmer,” you say, snuggling into her shoulder and sliding your hand under the hem of her t-shirt so that your fingertips can brush across the skin of her hip bone.

“We should really get up,” Georgia says, though she makes no move to do so.

“Five more minutes?” you ask, nuzzling your face into Georgia’s neck and pressing your lips to her pulse point.

“Go on then. Five more minutes.”

———

It’s another twenty minutes before you eventually drag yourselves out of bed, which means you have to rush to get ready and any chance you might have had to slip out of the hotel before any of Georgia’s teammates see you is ruined when you hear a knock on the door.

You’ve redressed in last night’s clothes, now mostly dry, and grab the last of your things as Georgia opens the door, revealing three of her teammates standing out in the hallway.

“Breakfast?” they ask her, before three pairs of eyes look past Georgia and fall on you, slipping your feet into your trainers.

“I should go,” you say, checking your coat pocket for your car keys and wandering over to where Georgia stands at the door once you’re satisfied you’ve got everything. “Text me when your flight lands.”

“I’ll text you before then,” Georgia says, her hand coming up to rest on your waist as she tilts her head up to press a sweet kiss to your lips. It’s far more chaste than the ones you shared last night and this morning but it’s still enough to draw some sniggers out of her teammates.

“Bye,” you whisper against her lips as you pull away.

“Love you,” she says.

“Love you too.”

As you leave the room and walk down the hall, you can hear Georgia’s teammates starting to tease her loudly behind you, and you enter the lift fighting off a smile that has everything to do with the development of your relationship in the last ten hours.

———

Luckily you don’t have to wait long to see Georgia again because just a few days after the Champions League match, she returns to England for another Lionesses camp as you prepare for the Finalissima against Brazil.

Naturally, you smuggle Georgia into your room almost as soon as she arrives on camp and spend the night trying really hard to keep your hands to yourself, because you’ve waited so long for Georgia to be yours that you’re determined to wait a little longer so that your first time together isn’t at St George’s Park while your teammates are trying to sleep in the rooms on either side of yours. But you settle for kissing her heatedly well into the night and waking up with her head resting on your chest and one of her arms draped around your waist.

You’re in such a good mood when you go down to breakfast on the first morning of camp, that you completely forget that nobody else knows about the new development in your relationship with Georgia. Specifically, you forget that Keira, who knows pretty much every other up and down of the last few months, doesn’t yet know that Georgia reciprocates your feelings.

You sit at your usual table for breakfast, Keira opposite you and Georgia setting her tray down next to yours.

“I’m just gonna get some juice,” Georgia says. “Do you want some?”

“No thanks,” you reply, taking a sip from your mug of coffee.

You watch as Georgia wanders over to the jugs of juice, your gaze following the swish of her ponytail before dropping to appreciate her legs and the shape of her butt in her training shorts. It’s only when Keira kicks you under the table, hard enough to surely leave a bruise on your shin, that you snap out of your trance.

“What?” 

“You’re still in love with her, aren’t you?” Keira hisses across the table.

You pause for a second, glancing between Keira and Georgia, who is on her way back to the table with a glass of orange juice, and then you laugh. You can’t help the way that it spills from your throat because Keira is looking at you like being in love with Georgia is the worst thing in the world, and while it might have been painful a week ago, you don’t know how to begin to explain that in the space of just a few days it’s become the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

“What did I miss?” Georgia asks, as she returns to the table and sits down beside you. “What’s so funny?”

“Keira thinks I’m in love with you,” you explain.

Keira’s eyes widen, and now that you’ve got over the initial surprise of her question, you start to wonder if you can have a bit of fun before actually telling her the truth.

Georgia is clearly thinking the same, because she nudges your thigh with hers and says, “Aw, you love me? That’s lame.”

Keira looks even more panicked - understandable given that she’d probably expect Georgia to be a little more considerate towards your feelings if she didn’t reciprocate.

“Can we talk after breakfast?” Keira asks. “Because I’m worried about you. I thought you’d…” Keira’s eyes flit across to Georgia, then back to you, giving you a deliberate look as she says, “… you know.”

“You thought she’d moved on?” Georgia fills in the gap. She puts down her fork, then reaches for your hand, lacing your fingers together and resting them on the table where Keira, and anybody else, can see. “Fat chance of that. She’s obsessed with me.”

Keira looks more confused than ever, and you realise that you probably owe her an explanation.

“G’s my …” You pause, realising that while you’ve both admitted you love each other and there seems to be an understanding that you’re together now, you haven’t actually had a conversation to put an official label on what you are. You turn to Georgia and ask, “Are you my girlfriend?”

“If that’s your way of asking me, it’s not very romantic, is it?” Georgia teases you.

Rolling your eyes, you turn back to Keira and say, “She’s my girlfriend. We’re dating.”

To emphasise your point, you bring your joined hands to your lips and press a kiss to the back of Georgia’s fingers.

Keira’s eyes look like they might pop out of her head at any second.

Leah sits down in the empty seat beside Keira, taking one look at your joined hands, before she says, without a hint of surprise in her voice, “You two have finally got your shit together, then? About bloody time.”

“How are you not more surprised by this?” Keira asks Leah, apparently exasperated by the new development. “I’ve spent months listening to this one,” she jabs an accusatory finger in your direction, “whine on and on about how much she loves Georgia and how Georgia is never going to love her back to the point where I’ve genuinely had sleepless nights worrying about it, only for them to hard launch their apparent relationship by rocking up to breakfast and just holding hands like it’s completely normal!”

Keira is usually so cool and composed, even when under stress, that it’s weird to see her have an outburst like this, but she’s the only one who knows the extent of how much your feelings for Georgia not being reciprocated until now has really affected you over the last few months, and for that she deserves an explanation. 

Georgia leans closer to you and whispers, “Babe, I think we broke Keira.”

You’ll have time to process the way that Georgia’s use of the pet name babe makes your heart do an actual somersault in your chest, eager to revisit the subject later, but you probably owe Keira an explanation before she actually combusts.

“I love her,” you tell Keira and Leah. “And it turns out G loves me too, it just took her a while to figure it out. But we’re serious about giving this a go. It’s brand new, which is scary and exciting, but…” You turn to Georgia now, almost forgetting that the others are here too as you get caught in the adoration in Georgia’s eyes. “But she’s my girlfriend, my best mate, the only person I’ve ever felt like this about. So yeah, I’ve been a bit of a mess over the last few months trying to get my head around what I felt for her. But she’s worth it. You’re worth it, Georgia. And I’m lucky I get to call you mine.”

Your words come from the heart and it feels for just a second like the two of you are caught in your own little bubble of blossoming romance.

That is, until Leah bursts it by sarcastically saying, “Well thanks guys, I really didn’t want to keep my breakfast down this morning.”

It doesn’t matter if Leah ruins the moment. You’ve waited for Georgia for far too long to care. And as the news of your relationship filters through camp until the rest of the team knows, met with some surprise, some cries of “I knew it!”, and plenty of teasing, the only thing that matters is Georgia and the fact that you finally get to call yourself hers.

[insomniakisses]

The three best friend ( Leah, G, Keira) and lucy hc hc with omega! R im joining other anon on this

Hi bestie ur amazing hope you’re well today !! 😘

- 💋

Im good bestie, hope u are too? 🥰

Joining the pack Hcs

Alphas - Leah, Georgia, Lucy and Keira

They were talking about finding an omega for a while, never agreeing on how to find one it what to look for.

They never planned to add you to the pack.

They didn’t see any comparability, sure you were attractive and sure you were on the same team and friends but that didn’t mean you’d be a good mate for them.

They all have big opinions and personalities, you had to be able to handle that.

They didn’t think you could, until you proved that you could handle them very well.

It was england camp when it happened, high stress and emotions with impending ruts for them had them all arguing.

They were miserable to be around and always caused fights.

It was during Lucy snapping at one of England’s newest members that you spoke up, voice loud and authoritative.

She’d froze immediately looking at you like she’d seen a ghost when you told her to behave and stop acting like a spoiled pup just because her dick hurt.

You had lectured the other 3 after, and they had say there like grounded pups while you did so.

It shocked everyone that you’d silenced them and made them act their age, even forced Lucy to appolagies.

When their ruts hit they immediately sort you out, arguments forgotten because something had stirred in them the other day and now they needed you.

After the mating was all done and you were wrapped up in between the 4 alphas they asked you to join the pack officially.

You happily excepted, how could you not?

The next day everyone knew you were theirs with the 4 mate marks on your neck, their cum in you and their growing possessive and protective nature towards you.

The only thing no one thought about was that you all played in different parts of the world…

[trulyhblue]

Girl(friends)

Lauren Hemp x Aussie! Reader

Warnings: fluff, coarse language, awkward, OG Man City

A/N — I'm in a Hempo phase rn so be prepared. Short one today x

______________________

You dreaded the days when you weren't playing football.

It was the one thing you couldn't live without, your adoration for the sport was larger and more demeaning than anything else. The solidarity, solace, and peace you found in running up down the wing, the ball at your feet. The feeling of utter elation when the ball went into the goal, past a defender, through the goalkeeper's reach. The celebrations, the assists, and everything else in between.

You could talk forever about football.

Except on Media Days.

You hated the unknown of it. You had managed to excuse yourself beforehand from most of these shoots since you weren't among the best-known players of the club — save that for Keira, Gee, and Lucy. But on the rare occasion that you were chosen for the quick photoshoot or challenge with one or more of the girls, you remained relatively quiet, speaking when you must and laughing when you should. You had no trouble with any of the girls, it was just in front of the public's view, and you were squirmish.

You pulled yourself out of bed after hitting snooze thrice, hearing Alanna ramp on downstairs. You made sure to stay in bed for another ten minutes. You changed into your team's tracksuit and a random top, making your way downstairs, slouching into one of the stools by the kitchen counter.

"Oh, wow." Alanna chuckled, holding out a coffee towards you. "You look delighted. Excited for today, are we?"

You simply offered her a grimace, taking a large sip of your coffee, hoping the taste would clear your evident distaste for the day ahead.

Alanna was a social butterfly. She was used to feeding into the Media's hand whenever they came becking. Most of the City girls were the same, it was a very jovial team that trusted one another well enough to have fun in the security of their job.

All the girls had arrived by the time Alanna and you had trampled in, wearing matching blue kits. Hayley was laughing with Georgia in front of a couple of cameras, a ball at their feet as they struggled to keep the ball off the floor. Gee tried to kick at the Aussie's feet, by didn't catch the ball in time to get the point. Raso threw her hands up in triumph, the cameras panning to Gee rolling around on the floor.

On the other side of the indoor training field were Lucy and Keira, standing around a giant-sized game of Janga, talking to the PR Managers behind the camera as they posed questions to the two of them as they played. Alex, Lauren and Chloe were sitting by a desk, on their phones as they waited for their turn to be called up.

The gush of blood that rushed to your cheeks when Lauren smiled towards you sent Alex and Chloe into a fit of giggles. The duo were always around to tease the two of you with your beyond-obvious, mutual pining. You wouldn't call it embarrassing, but there were certainly times when one of you would go out of your way to gain the other’s attention.

When you first met, Lauren tried to give you a tour of the facilities, but she ended up getting both of you lost. She apologised over and over profusely, and she dreaded the awful, first impression she had left you with.

You and Alanna sat beside them, greeting them with conversation before falling into a satisfied silence. Your next game was the Manchester Derby against United. The team had been training non-stop this past week, today is the first day without strenuous drills and exercises. Nevertheless, it was still a day at work, and to be honest, you'd rather be sweating ten times over than talking to a camera.

The thought of doing a video alone daunted you as you watched Hayley and Gee from afar. On a regular day, Hayley would be your Media Partner; the two of you always did videos with one another. On the odd day that you didn't, it'd be Alanna. If not Alanna, it was with a group of you. Now that you thought about it, the two Aussie girls were the only ones you had done a video with one-on-one. The feeling of someone different was tormenting. As the five of you sat silent on your phones, you hoped and prayed all of you would be doing a video together.

While you kept to yourself for the most part, save for the Aussie girls, you would go out of your way to make sure Lauren was your partner in drills. You’d try your hardest when she was watching, and vice versa. The blonde would hit the ball as hard as she could into the back of the net, and you’d be that landed with the assist. In games, you had been quickly dubbed as a duo due to the chemistry you seemed to have in the game. Fans would swarm at any interaction you’d have with her.

But to their dismay — and apparently most of your teammates — you and Lauren had never been in a video together.

But, to your surprise, you spoke too soon.

"Alright, Ladies, are you ready?" One of the PR girls came up with an iPad, scrolling through whatever it was she was looking for, and glancing up. You noticed Lauren straightening up beside you, holding her arms over her chest, waiting for the woman to finish her sentence.

You found yourself catching sight of the slight furrow in the girl's eyebrows; the concern written all over her face. You knew she was worried, and you supposed you were too. "We've got Greenwood, Kelly, and Kennedy over there. You've got interviews."

You tried not to look too relieved at the news, hiding the smile in response to the girl's identical groans. No one liked Interviews. They were serious, solemn, and no fun whatsoever. It was always boring questions about your job as a Midfielder, or how you maintained a balanced life outside of football. It wasn't the fans' favourite video to watch at all, but it was more for the professional side of it than the Media. Everyone had to do it. You were just glad that today it wasn't you.

"Hempo and Y/l/n, we've got an auto-complete interview."

"That's not fair, those are so much better," Alanna whined at that, throwing her head back like a toddler. "Hempo, surely we swap."

Lauren pursed her lips together, cheeks going a bit red at all the eyes on her. Alex and Chloe waited for her response, a smirk aligned on each of their faces.

"Nah, leave her Lani." Alex sounded, prodding the blonde with her elbow.

Lauren's cheeks went a deeper red when Chloe laughed. "Hempo's been wanting to do this for ages."

"Shut up, Kelly." Lauren snapped in a mutter, turning away to march off towards the direction of the lone white background and chairs. You turned to see the two Brits giggling to themselves, dragging Alanna over to the back doors.

"Have fun, Y/n/n."

"Hope you're as excited as Hempo!"

You shrugged them off, sauntering over to the set-up. Lauren was already sitting on a stool, playing with the rings on her fingers, wearing a prominent scowl.

"Are you alright?" You asked, sitting on the spare chair, tensing when you accidentally knocked your knee with hers.

Her pale cheeks disappeared, replaced with the blush you saw from before. "Yes, they're just annoying. Very annoying."

"Having a laugh, I 'spose." You reasoned, though the blonde didn't come off as too convinced. "But you're right, they're silly."

The blonde simply hummed in response, the both of you listening to the man behind the camera.

"Okay, guys, this is really straightforward." He said, readjusting the camera as he spoke. "You just got to introduce yourselves before you start, then we'll give you a board full of questions and you've just got to answer them. All good?"

Everyone watched the two of you nod. No one could deny the definitive awkwardness between the two of you, and the obvious hesitance toward what you were about to do. It was safe to say neither of you was fit to talk on and on, especially under the scrutiny of viewers.

You didn't know the cameras were already recording, choosing to fiddle with your hands as you waited. You could tell by the definitive look on Hempo's face that she was just as reluctant as you were. The blonde glanced at you from the corner of her eye, shuffling in her chair before she muttered towards you.

"You have an eyelash."

You spun to face her. "What?"

Lauren's face reddened, her beady brown eyes widening at your sudden response.

Without thinking, she pulled her hand out from her pocket, reaching to pinch something off your face. She was gentle when pulling away, holding her finger up to reveal the eyelash she had picked. She watched as you blew it off, giggling meekly at the benevolent interaction.

"You ready?" One of the people asked behind the camera, making the two of you leave your intimate bubble. "When you're ready."

Lauren nodded towards you. "You can start."

You sighed, trying to hide the smile that crammed your lips. "Hello, my name is Y/N, and this is Lauren Hemp," You waited for the blonde to finish your sentence, but when you were met with silence, you took one look at her stupefaction and continued. "And today we're going to be doing a... what is it?"

Lauren lifted up one of the boards that balanced against the end of her chair. She picked it up, surveying it, reading out the bulk letters at the top. "An auto-complete interview."

"Right. That's what we're doing."

The two of you left the introduction at that, an empty silence vacating the set.

Thankfully, a voice sounded from behind the camera. "Who's starting?"

Lauren shrugged, filling the ungainly silence. "I can."

You both stared at the board in between you. "I think you peel them off." You spoke, motioning at the tape that covered half the sentences. Lauren took your advice, skinning the first sticker to reveal the question.

"Who is Lauren Hemp's team?" You read out, making both of you giggle. "Oo, that's a good question."

"I play for Manchester City." Lauren played with the tape in her hand as answered. "But I play for England in the National Team."

She peeled off the second one, waiting for you to read it. "Who is Lauren Hemp's favourite teammates?" You spoke, rubbing your head in deceitful confusion.

Lauren laughed, glimpsing at you with a beaming smile. "We haven't known each other for long."

"Yes, but I'm very charismatic." You shook your head, sighing. "But go on, who is it?"

"Well," She thought to herself for a second. "I'm close with all the girls but... I'd have to say Esme, of course. She's my best friend."

"No brainer, clearly." You made a point to roll your eyes, huffing about, but it was plain to see that you were only joking. "Alright, who is Lauren Hemp's... boyfriend?"

There was a bit of an awkward interlude, leaving everyone looking around the pitch. Lauren, however, fell into a cynical fit of laughter, with you following shortly after.

"No boyfriends for me."

You didn't know why, but your stomach recoiled at the thought of Lauren with someone. It was a great relief to hear that she wasn't. "None at all?" You couldn't help but ask.

Lauren was quick to reply. "No, no boys... or girls at all."

"Right." You replied, placing the board onto the floor, hoping no one was noticing the pink across your cheeks. "Who's next?"

The next board was displayed between the two of you like before, except this time, your name was typed across it. Lauren shuffled closer to you, pinning the board to her side. “Go on then.”

You peeled the first question off. “Who is Y/N Y/L/N’s favourite team?”

Lauren looked at you, laughing when you were silent. “Well, I'm not answering, you are.”

“Yeah, well, hold on, I'm thinking.” You scoffed, pretending to whack the girl playfully with your board. She swatted you away, grabbing the board from where it rested on your thigh and smiled.

“I'm gonna say the Matildas because why else,” You could hear the Blonde’s indistinguishable disapproval, clicking her tongue. You’d later find out when watching the clip that she rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest affectionately. “But yeah, my childhood club was Sydney FC, so I’ll stick with my roots.”

“But she plays for City,” Lauren added, both of you giggling at your ambiguity. You never liked these types of questions, especially when the media took them out of context. You love City with all your heart, but it was easy for people to twist things and make it out that you didn't mean what you said.

“But I play for City, yes, and I love it.” You repeated, proceeding in ripping off each of the stickers as the game went on.

Lauren was patient when it wasn’t her go, adding in her opinion and a subtle joke every so often, basking in your immediate reaction each time. You bounced off one another like wildfire, seemingly knowing what the other was going to say before it was said. You were intellectual in what you shared, favourite meals, celebrity crushes, words of advice — pretty much anything the questions asked. Without knowing, you and Lauren discovered more and more about each other without directly asking. Your relationship blossomed, even with the presence of the cameras, into something tangible, free, and warm.

When it got to the end, you were still holding the board, fiddling with its edges as Lauren wrapped up the last of her questions. Somehow, you felt a little upset that the video was coming to an end. You wanted these questions to keep on coming. You would spend hours listening to the girl talk about what she loved and who she was. But by the time the last question lingered, you feel into comfortable silence.

Ever so slowly, Lauren inched her hand closer to the board you were holding, brushing her pinky and ring finger across your thigh as she did so. You pretended to conceal your flustered state by smiling, giving her the board to chuck away.

You didn't know how you coped when you felt Lauren keep her hand on your thigh.

“Well, that's the end of the video,” She finished, looking towards the camera, then to you.

You smiled back at her. “We hope you enjoyed and if you what to see more—”

“Well there's no more videos of us.”

“But go check the channel anyway.”

“Bye!”

_________________

manchestercity

manchestercity — watch our fan-fav duo answer your questions on our youtube channel!!! 🩵🩵🩵

Coming out later today 💪🏻💪🏻

tagged: laurenhemp, yourusername

Comments:

alexgreenwood — I'm as excited as @ laurenhemp, right @ chloekelly???

^ chloekelly — the real ones know 😂

^ user19 — what r they talking about Lol???????

^ chloekelly — yeah, Hempo, what are we talking about?

^ laurenhemp — STOP

User1 — they are so cute omg

^ user2 — IKKKKK

user22 — Alex and Chloe’s comments?

^ user25 — they know something we don't

^ alexgreenwood 👀

^ user22 — HELP

yourusername — hope you all enjoy 🩵

^ manchestercity — 🩵

laurenhemp — thanks for having us!

^manchestercity — 🩵

^ user3 — the blue heart is just so 😍

User4 — “you've got an eyelash.” “what?” UGH THE SOFTNESS OMG

^ user5 — the way Y/N lets Hempo brush it off and blow it away 😭😭

^ user6 — they definitely had no idea they were recording.

user7 — OKAY ADMIN FINALLY FEEDING US WITH THE HEMPO x Y/N CONTENT

^ user8 — RIGHTTTTT LIKE IM HERE FOR IT

user10 — they will win us the league.

^ user11 — why didn't they work together sooner?

^ user10 — fr

laurenhemp (pretend its you, luv u keira)

laurenhemp — winner winners

tagged: yourusername

Comments are limited.

Yourusername — stargirl 🌟

^laurenhemp — 🫶🏼

alexgreenwood — yeah the girl(friends)

^ chloekelly — yeah the friends…

__________________________________

A/N — this was really rushed and cut up but there isn't enough Hempo fics out there. I rlly didn't do her justice tn 🫠

[leahsgf]

hi!! could you please do a lucy fic where she looks after a younger player (like late teens age) and she gets very protective over them, like when they’re tackled badly or when interacting with fans, or maybe helps them with nightmares, any stuff like that pls

I’VE GOT YOU - lucy bronze

lucy bronze x teen!reader

just lucy being an overprotective older sister figure to you

lucy had been protective over you from the instant she saw you for the first time, after your call up to the senior squad. you were a little baby in comparison to the other girls, and she could sense your anxiousness - immediately taking you under her wing, and being like the older sister you never had.

to say she was fiercely protective over you was the understatement of the century, and this was something well known by everyone around you - so when you found yourself on the receiving end of a particularly rough tackle during a game, there was only one way it would go.

you weren’t entirely sure what had even happened, all you knew is that you were hit, hard, leaving you slumped on the pitch, with pain swarming your body, and blood trickling down your head.

you cried out silently as you were surrounded by your fellow teammates and medics, and everyone except the one person you needed.

alessia and georgia were crouched at your side, holding your hands and stroking your hair in an attempt to comfort you as a splint was placed around your leg, and you were being prepared to be stretchered off.

amongst the ringing noise of the crowd and the worried voices all around you, you could hear lucy’s shouts from a distance as clear as day, worrying as you could hear that she was arguing with both the ref and the opposing player as keira and leah pleaded with her to just leave it be.

“she needs you with her more than she needs you to be doing this. we’ll sort it out, just go to her. she only wants you.” keira pointed towards you.

lucy nodded, as if instantly coming to her senses at a mention of you, before rushing towards the chaos, everyone knowing to part to let her through to you.

“luce.”

you spoke in barely a murmur, yet she was next to you in an instant, as if you had screamed her name - and you visibly relaxed with her presence.

“i’m here sweetheart, i’m here. you’re gonna be okay, hm? i’ve got you.” she pressed a kiss to your head and held your hand as you were carried off the pitch, being subbed off to be with you.

-

she was there for you in other aspects of the games too, always making sure to keep an eye on you when you were meeting the waiting fans at the end of matches, knowing your struggles with anxiety and that you were still only young and relatively new to all of the attention on you.

there was one day where the shouts of your name, shirts being thrown and phones thrusted in front of your face became a little too much, and you froze - completely overwhelmed, and she was quick to be next to you, wrapping her arm around your shoulder and guiding you towards the tunnel after thanking all of the fans for coming.

“you did great, little one. gets a bit much for us all sometimes, it’s perfectly okay to have boundaries, let’s head out - fancy a movie night?”

-

the pair of you always roomed together, as she was your unofficial guardian whilst you were on camp or away for games, and those were the moments where she saw you at your most vulnerable.

you had been plagued with nightmares from a very young age - and they worsened as your anxiety peaked.

you often woke in tears, struggling to catch your breath in the darkness, but lucy never once hesitated to comfort you, no matter the time of night or how tired she was, she’d be rubbing your back and talking you through it.

“there’s my girl, you’re doing so well. i’ve got you.”

-

i’m not sure if i’m happy with the ending but i just want to post it so i’m ending it here…

[theteasetwrites]

Begin Again

Chapter 4: L'élu

❧ Media: The Walking Dead: Daryl Dixon ❧ Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Female Reader ❧ Era: Season 1 ❧ Pronouns: she/her ❧ Warnings: violence, blood, death ❧ Word Count: 10k (sorry)

❧ In This Chapter: You and Daryl get to know the inhabitants of the abbey, as well as the truth behind Isabelle's intentions. Just when the two of you decide to leave, trouble from another group leads to limited options, and a possible way out.

❧ A/N: Well it looks like I finished this literally just in time for Season 2 lol. Also sorry this chapter is insanely long. And sorry I took so long to finish it. I don't know if there are many people who are reading this series lol but I sure do appreciate everyone reading it! I'm not sure how Season 2 is going to go with the sneak peeks we've been getting lately, but rest assured that (Y/N) will not be letting Isabelle anywhere near Daryl, that's for sure.

“Across the courtyard is where the sisters live,” said Isabelle, leading Daryl into the corridor with you following close behind, now dressed in a simple linen blouse that was a few sizes too big, tucked neatly into brown wool trousers. With a quick pause, she turned to Daryl as she led the two of you forward. “No men allowed.”

That interested you, because you’d seen a man. Well, a boy. 

“What about the little boy I saw?” you asked.

“Laurent grew up here. With us. He was orphaned.” She continued to speak something in French to another nun as the three of you passed through the hall and into a wider room. As the two of you crossed the threshold, a couple of passing nuns carrying baskets of linens hesitated, stepping back a bit as their widened eyes took in your unfamiliar figures. 

Before you could manually tug your facial muscles into a small smile, the nuns hurriedly scurried past, clearly not interested in pleasantries. Or perhaps it had been so long since the seemingly secluded cloister had visitors that they’d all but forgotten them. After all, you couldn’t really imagine many people happening to stumble upon the remains of this crumbling castle in the French countryside. You and Daryl, however, were an exception, to be sure.

“They’re afraid of you,” said Isabelle, a breathy laugh lilting her words. 

“We’ll be gone soon,” Daryl assured her. It assured you, too. 

Advancing into what seemed to be the foyer, your eyes were drawn to your left, where iron bars separated the grand entrance way from what appeared to be a small armory. Daryl followed closely behind as you entered, your eyes darting between neatly organized displays of rudimentary medieval weapons—from maces to spears to halberds. You’d seen well-stocked armories, one of which was in Alexandria. Even by Alexandria’s standards, this one was impressive.

“Medieval churches often had weapons rooms,” Isabelle said. “You needed them back then.”

You split from Daryl, each of you drawn like moths to flames to either side of the small room. You found yourself entranced by a display of war hammers, the silver of their heads dulled by a few layers of dust that must’ve accumulated over years of disuse. One in particular caught your attention—a smaller one, about the length of your arm, with a two-sided head, one side beveled and blunt, the other sharp and curved slightly. It reminded you of your ice axe, the scrappy hiking tool that you’d found in a sporting goods store in Georgia. That was so long ago now, but the thing somehow survived through it all, though in truth you no longer had any idea where it could be, after the mess of everything that went down before you landed here. 

“Makes sense.” The gravel of Daryl’s voice with its soft echo stirred you from your thoughts of distant memories, now clouded by seawater and sand. 

“We’ve trained ourselves to use them. Just in case.”

“Killer nuns, huh?” you replied, a hint of disbelief in your voice. 

“Well, we can defend ourselves if we need to.”

The nun met your gaze with a relaxed smile. In her eyes, that damned calm that you couldn’t get past. She was too inscrutable, too poised. She knew something, you just weren’t sure what. 

Behind you, you felt Daryl’s body brush past. Turning around, you saw what had entranced him—a wall of guns on display, each with a small silver plaque identifying the make and model (in French, of course). Even the guns had an antique look to them, with their stocks all made from a rich umber wood. A far cry from the militaristic automatic weapons that Daryl had been used to carrying over a year ago when he was a trooper for the Commonwealth, but he found a subtle artfulness to these machines, as if they were crafted by hand. The collection reminded him of the old guns his father kept laying around the house he’d grown up in rural northeast Georgia. He’d almost shot his own eye out with one when he was three years old, according to Merle, who had a much clearer memory of the event than the younger Dixon brother did. Nevertheless, he couldn’t forget that wood stock. Not any kind of pleasant memory, of course, but a memory nonetheless.

“Père Jean was a collector,” continued Isabelle. “His grandfather fought in the Maquis.”

Daryl’s finger trailed to a suspiciously empty space between the other weapons, where a pair of display hangers were waiting patiently without their rifle. 

“You’ve got one missin’,” he said. 

Isabelle replied calmly, “That’s the one I used.”

Your gaze flickered towards her, and when you caught a flash of her pale blue eyes already on you like a sniper’s crosshairs, you quickly snapped your attention away. Beside the firearms display was a door left ajar. The room it led into was smaller, with its own collection of antique tomes and trinkets. Your eyes were fixated on the bookshelf behind a mahogany desk, upon which sat a microscope and a small rack of glass vials. 

Approaching behind you, Isabelle’s voice continued. “That’s Père Jean’s office.”

You were beginning to wonder where this mysterious Père Jean was. Wherever he was, he certainly had an impressive library, just based on the sheer volume of leather-bound books packed tightly into the shelves. Despite your inability to read the French text, you were more interested in Père Jean’s books than you were in his guns. Daryl had more than once told you that guns were more useful in the outside world because you could use them to defend yourself. Well, he should’ve known better, as someone who had once been an accidental victim of your ability to use a rather large encyclopedia as a blunt force object.

As for Daryl, his practicality overcame the curiosity that befell you, for his eyes were immediately drawn to what appeared to be an old shortwave radio, not too unlike ones you’ve seen Eugene hauling around Alexandria back when he was setting up the radio system there. 

“You know how to use that radio?” he asked, pointing towards the contraption. 

“It’s been a while since I’ve managed to reach anyone on it.”

“Do you mind if I give it a try?” you asked. You didn’t want to brag, but you knew your way around a radio. Many nights spent trying to get a hold of Daryl through a crackling radio frequency during his particularly long hunts or his brief stint as the leader of the Sanctuary were very educational.

“Sure,” she replied. “Once you get better.”

There was another exchange of looks between you and Daryl, the latter of which was just starting to lose his patience. You could tell. The irritated twitch in his eye said it all.

Silence settled in for just a few moments, until you received the unspoken impression that Isabelle was ready for you to exit the room. You did so, but as soon as you heard the click of a key turning, you turned to catch the nun locking the door shut from the outside. Your eyes followed her hands as she clipped a rusty keychain onto the brown leather belt that cinched her waist.

“The last one was a Spaniard,” she continued. “A few months ago. He spoke a bit of English. I could try reaching him again.”

You kept your mouth shut, lest you say something snarky. 

“Your English is good,” remarked Daryl. 

“My parents worked for Médecins San Frontiéres. They traveled all over.”

How convenient, you thought. 

“Bosnia, Chechnya, Rwanda.” Perhaps it was the jealousy still souring your impression of the woman, but you couldn’t help an internal eye-roll. Of course this woman was beautiful and skilled and tough and intelligent and worldly, too. You hated her. Well, you didn’t, but you hated the idea of her. Too perfect. You knew it was petty. Still, as long as you kept your thoughts to yourself, you were sure you’d be able to warm up to her. Maybe. 

“My sister and I finished our schooling in Paris,” she added. 

“How’d you end up here?” Daryl asked. 

“A bunch of good decisions.” 

There was a familiarity to her words, but you couldn’t place it. Unbeknownst to you, you couldn’t place it because they were words Daryl had spoken to Isabelle earlier, only slightly altered. 

A bunch of bad decisions, he had said when she asked him the same question he now asked her. 

You looked between them, their stares lingering. You did not like it. Not one bit. Not because of jealousy, but because it was clear that whoever this woman was, she was capable of pulling strings—of manipulation. 

Well, maybe it was also jealousy. A bit.

The dusty, centuries-old air of the castle gave way to a fresh breeze winding through the covered walkways that surrounded the courtyard you’d seen earlier. Isabelle herded the two of you through the open corridor as the other nuns toiled in the garden. It was impressive, though more primitive than the ones you’d constructed back home. 

“Was this garden always here?” you asked. “I mean, before.” 

“Yes and no,” Isabelle answered. “The abbey was already being modernized by the time I came. Our hope was to convert the land into an agricultural property that would support us, fund our mission.”

“Looks like it’s working,” you said. “It’s impressive.”

Isabelle turned to smile at you. It seemed more natural this time, less forced than the previous ones. “It’s been enough to keep us going.”

Across the courtyard, you noticed the jerky movement of another nun, tilting her head to signal something to Isabelle, you presumed. She was an older woman with a black hood, as opposed to Isabelle’s white. She must’ve been a full-on mother superior, or whatever you’d call it. You weren’t entirely sure. Her face was serious, though, tinged with what you interpreted to be distrust, or even fear. No doubt it was related to the two weather-worn strangers the nun towed behind her. 

“Take a seat,” said Isabelle. “I’ll be right back.”

She left the two of you before a stone table, and just ahead of you, a familiar face approached: the young nun you’d first encountered when you awoke here. Sylvie, you recalled Isabelle calling her. She carried a tray of food with a jug of water, placing it on the table in front of you without so much as a second of eye contact. Perhaps she was wary of you, too. You didn’t blame her too much, considering how much you’d stressed her out upon your rude awakening. 

“Thank―uh… merci,” you said quietly, a tad insecure of the way the unfamiliar word sounded on your American tongue. Still, Sylvie seemed to respond to you with a slight lift of her head. She met your eyes with an anxious look in her wide eyes. Unsure of what else to do, you simply smiled. The nun did not smile back, only nodded her head in one quick, near imperceptible motion, and then turned sharply, walking away with quick steps. 

Daryl’s shoulder grazed yours as he leaned over the table to inspect the provisions: two crisp red apples, two bowls of stew, two hard boiled eggs nestled in tiny cups, four slices of homemade wheat bread (buttered), and two small glasses for water.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he took a piece of bread into his hands, breaking it apart and putting the other half back with its brethren. That was a habit of his―rationing even when he didn’t really need to.

“How is it?” you asked, watching him nearly finish the bread in two bites. 

His lips pursed as he chewed and nodded his head. “Good.”

“Better than mine?”

“Nah.”

You took the piece he’d left and took a small bite, savoring the taste. “Mm… You’re right. Mine is better.” 

With the tray of food in your possession, you sat together on the stone slab connecting two columns in the peristyle, facing each other as you leaned against the hard stone structures and savored the simple foods you’d been given. Once in a while, you’d look out into the courtyard, watching the nuns carry out their daily chores. You spied a goat or two, and a dozen or so chickens squawking about. The boy you’d seen earlier, however, was nowhere to be seen.

“I wonder why Isabelle’s so stingy with that radio,” you said. “You think she’s hiding something?”

“Maybe. Or she doesn’t want us to leave.”

“Maybe both.” Taking a bite of your apple, you couldn’t help but wonder just what kind of people you’d run into this time. “Ritual sacrifice,” you said. Daryl lifted his head from the bowl of soup he slurped from.

“What?” 

“Maybe they want to sacrifice us for some weird cult thing. Like an offering to God. You ever see The Wicker Man? What if human sacrifices are what keeps this garden so nice for harvest season?”

Daryl couldn’t quite tell if you were serious or not. After all, stranger things had happened to the two of you. 

“You’re jokin’, right?”

A smile slowly crept across your tired face. “I guess. Mostly. I just know there’s something up. I need to get to that radio, Daryl.”

“Me too,” he agreed. “Sooner the better.” He leaned in closer now, and you followed suit. His voice lowered to a whisper, he said, “The keys are on her belt. Maybe tonight we can…”

His voice trailed off into nothing as his eyes shifted to your left, focusing on something else. Despite your feeling that something was approaching, you kept your own focus on him. “Daryl?”

He leaned back quickly, putting distance between the two of you once again. Before you were even aware of the boy’s presence, he’d gingerly placed what looked to be a Rubik’s cube onto the stone bench. Like you’d just seen a giant spider, you stood up swiftly to distance yourself from the contraption. 

The boy, the same one you’d seen earlier, you presumed, didn’t hesitate to take your seat. He looked at Daryl expectantly. 

“Now you try,” said the boy. Laurent, you recalled.

Without the knight’s helmet obscuring his appearance, you took note of the long, slightly unkempt hair that reached his shoulders in dark waves. It reminded you of Daryl’s, put the boy himself seemed much too talkative and abrupt for further comparison between the two.

With a somewhat suspicious gaze, Daryl looked between the puzzle and the boy. It was solved, he noted. He could never figure these things out. Neither could you.

“My record is three minutes and twelve seconds,” Laurent continued proudly. He picked up the cube and held it out towards Daryl for further indication. Daryl took the cube in his own hand, tossed it around for a moment or two, then handed the thing back. 

“I’m not really good at shit like that,” he said. Perhaps being away from the children for the last month or so had deprived him of his usual sensibilities which prevented him from cursing in front of them. Daryl didn’t even notice he’d done it, but you did. Still, you were too confused by the precocious child’s sudden appearance to say anything.

“No? Oh. I’m quite good at… shitlikethat.” You cringed slightly at the boy repeating Daryl’s words, albeit sloppily and in a French accent. You just hoped he wouldn’t repeat it in front of the nuns. “Math problems, science, music, geography. Also, I know all the countries and capitals from back in the before time.”

An exhale escaped from your nose. “Wow.” Laurent’s alert face turned towards you, looking up at you with cunning, yet unassuming, brown eyes. “You learned all of that here?”

He smiled. “Père Jean taught me everything.”

“Well, he sounds like a smart man. I’d love to meet him.”

The boy’s face visibly darkened before he turned back to Daryl, who clearly was the object of his fascination. “Pardon my manners, monsieur. I’m Laurent. Pleased to make your acquaintance” Holding his hand out, Daryl took it, and the boy administered a single firm shake. 

“How many people do you think live within the boundaries of what was once France?” he asked Daryl. “Starting from sixty-seven million people before the fall, I speculate current French populace is fewer than two-hundred-thousand.”

“I was gonna say way less,” replied Daryl. 

“Much less. Do you know how long it would take to repopulate that many people?”

“No.”

Laurent paused, lowering his gaze to the ground. “Six generations. Perhaps seven. Hurts my stomach just thinking about it.”

“Yeah, the math sucks.”

Another pause, while you seemed to be a ghost in this conversation. You knew that the most likely explanation was that Laurent had probably not grown up knowing many other boys or men, so it made sense that he was eager to speak to Daryl. That, and there was always something about Daryl that children gravitated towards. You found it rather cute, even though most of the time he had no idea how to talk to children. There were even times when he was at a loss for words when speaking to Robin. 

“Do you have children, monsieur? A wife? Parents?”

Daryl’s eyes lifted towards you, his face questioning. You’d yet to discuss with each other the extent to which you’d inform these people of your lives back home. Isabelle already knew of your relationship to one another, but not about your children, or the others back home. She didn’t know about Alexandria. For now, you made up your mind that no one here needed to know of anything besides the fact that you and Daryl were married. 

“I’m his wife,” you said, catching the boy’s attention again. Holding out your hand, you offered a smile. “(Y/N).”

Laurent looked at you again as he shook your hand, much more delicately than he had with Daryl. He seemed more confident with the man, more eager to impress him. With you, he seemed… fragile. 

And now, with the boy’s full attention on you, you found yourself held hostage by his stare―dark and paralyzing. When he let go of your hand, his eyes seemed to fill with sadness, like a kind of grief. 

“You’re homesick,” he said to you. “I see it in your eyes.” 

The smile on your lips melted into a lukewarm puddle on your face. You always knew you tended to wear your emotions on your sleeve, but you’d never met a young child so perceptive. 

“You can tell that just from my eyes?”

“I feel things. In my stomach. I feel your sadness.” 

Breaking the silence that settled between you, a distant voice called out, “Laurent!” and some words in French you didn’t know.

After turning to see the nun calling to him, he turned back to you. “Time for poetry. Père Jean awaits.”

He began to walk away, his Rubik’s cube in hand, but he turned back once more, placing the puzzle on the bench beside Daryl. 

“Now you try,” he said again before finally taking his leave. 

Daryl’s movements were jittery with impatience as he wedged the knife in the doorjamb whilst jiggling the handle in different motions. Meanwhile, you stood watch a few yards away, just in case any passing nuns caught the two of you attempting to get into Père Jean’s study, where the radio sat in waiting. 

It was still daylight, which you found to be a hindrance, but you couldn’t wait much longer for nightfall. Time was something the two of you didn’t exactly have, not when it came to trying to get back home. 

“Clear,” you signed from across the small room that stored the nuns’ weapons. 

Daryl nodded in acknowledgement, then turned his focus back to his so far failed attempts to open the door without a key. With a huff, he continued with different techniques, all of which seemed fruitless. His face contorted in frustration, with impatience seeming to cloud his ability to devise a more clever method. The door simply wouldn’t budge, no matter how hard he strained to get the knife to disturb the locking mechanism. 

Like goddamn Fort Knox, he thought to himself. 

And then, you’re hearing it before your mind or body can react. Daryl is frozen in momentary suspension. You can feel your heart pump faster and your blood quicken. Daryl’s eyes immediately search for you, then his mind races the same way it has a thousand times before as his hand curls tighter around the handle of the knife he purloined. And instinctually, you reach for a weapon that you do not have. 

The growl gets louder, but not closer. It’s not moving. It’s stationary, but taunted. Laurent’s voice is meandering under the guttural groans of the unseen creature. His voice isn’t frightened, though. It’s calm. At ease. 

You didn’t waste another second. 

But before your feet made any forward movement, you felt your right hand now gripping a cylindrical wooden handle. Daryl moved past you once he knew the weapon he’d given you was in your hand―the small warhammer you’d been fixated on earlier.

Following not too far behind Daryl, you rounded the corner out to the courtyard, where you saw Laurent. He was standing in front of an old wooden door with a square barred window. Between the rusty iron bars, a pale, decrepit hand stretched out towards the boy, who seemed all too calm. In Laurent’s hands, a book. It came together now—he was reading to the creature. 

Daryl hurried towards the boy, pulling him away by the shoulder. You stood back, tightening your grip on your weapon. The walker seemed contained, but it reached out with both hands now, growling and snarling at Daryl. 

“What the hell are you doin’?” asked Daryl.

“This is Pére Jean,” replied Laurent, as if it was obvious. “We are waiting for him to rise again.”

Daryl looked from the walker, to Laurent, to you. You could see in his eyes that his tolerance had just run out. Daryl had been prepared to put up with as much as he needed to if it meant getting the two of you back home, but this? 

Well, you and he had seen this kind of thing before, all the way back at the farm. Hershel had been keeping walkers in his barn, most of which had in life been his family or friends, in the hopes that one day there’d be a cure for this disease. He thought they were sick, not dead. Back then, it made a little more sense. It was the beginning, and people were coping with this terrible new world in any way they could. 

Still, Daryl had no room for understanding back then, him being one of the first to lead the charge against exterminating the walkers in the barn. He certainly didn’t have it within him to understand it now, twelve years later, when all who were living should’ve known better. Even nuns.

“Laurent.” Isabelle’s voice echoed softly, but urgently, through the courtyard. She came toward the boy as she spoke to him in French. You figured she dismissed him, because soon he was walking away. Now, her eyes turned to you, then Daryl. 

There was no unsettling calm there now, no more pretense. In this moment, despite your disgust, you felt that this was the sincerest form of her you had seen yet. There was fear in her eyes. Not of you, not of Daryl, and not of the walker. Something else entirely. For the first time since you’d been here, you felt sympathy for her, though you could not place why.

“Let me explain,” she said, but Daryl was already turning, making his way back into the abbey. You followed closely, but with an odd sense of guilt in the pit of your stomach. You pushed it away. Intuition would have to be put on the back burner. Survival was more important.

“You got a lot of witchy shit goin’ on around here.” Daryl pushed open the doors to the room where he’d awoken. Though you followed him, your feet froze in place. Isabelle caught up to him, her face as white as the cloth shrouding her. “Dead priest in a closet and a creepy kid? No thanks.”

You watched Daryl as he gathered his belongings. You felt an incessant pounding inside your head as thoughts ran wild and emotions flooded you. On one hand, you were more than happy to pack up your things and get out of here, but on the other, you wanted to know more about what was going on here. Perhaps it was that curiosity that often got you into trouble, but you couldn’t help it. Maybe seeing the nun’s facade crumble had made you more receptive to the idea of hearing her out. You weren’t sure why. You’d been more than ready to leave this place since the minute you opened your eyes this morning. 

“It’s not what you think,” she said. Her eyes flashed from him to you, as if pleading. There was so much desperation in her, so much that you felt it flooding into you. Whatever she wanted, it was serious. 

“Doesn’t matter what I think. We’re outta here.” Daryl yanked the nightshirt he’d awoken in and stuffed it into the backpack he’d found on the boat. Looking at you from across the room, his gaze was firm. Unyielding. “C’mon,” he said. “Get your stuff. We’re goin’. Now.”

Before you could respond, the doors behind you rattled shut. Isabelle stood in front of the closed doors, blocking your only exit. You knew that you could probably push past her smaller frame if you needed to, and Daryl most certainly could, but her desperation seemed strong enough to put up a fight. 

“You can’t leave. Not without us. We’ve been waiting for you.”

Isabelle’s eyes were locked onto Daryl as she spoke. You looked between the two of them, confused and getting increasingly irritated with Isabelle’s lack of detailed explanation. 

“Waiting for Daryl?” you asked. “What do you mean waiting for him?”

Isabelle’s gaze shifted towards you. “He’s the messenger.” Her eyes were wide and her voice firm with confidence in this statement, as if it meant anything to you or him. 

Daryl paused his hurried packing as he looked over to you. He was just as confused, and just as frustrated. 

“The messenger?” he repeated. 

“To deliver Laurent.”

You let out a huff. “Deliver him? Deliver him where?”

From her pocket she procured a folded piece of parchment. She hastily unfolded the paper as she approached Daryl. “He drew this.” With a low grumble, he took the picture into his hands. 

You side-stepped to place yourself next to Daryl, looking over his shoulder to get a glimpse of whatever madness Isabelle was ranting about. 

The parchment was faded and cracked, but the colored pencil outlined with graphite was new and crisp. The style was simple and childlike, of course, but clearly discernible. Depicted on the page was the body of a man engulfed in blue waves, with his head poking out and resting upon a yellow beach dotted with seashells. It looked as if he was washing onto the shore. The man sported sinuous hairs that reached his shoulder and a cross hatching of lines along his chin that you assumed represented facial hair. 

Had the situation been different, you might’ve found this amusing. After all, the man in the picture was vague looking enough to resemble any man with slightly long hair and a beard. It could’ve been Jesus Christ himself, but Daryl? You would have laughed if you weren’t so conflicted about what to think. Was Isabelle just plain out of her right mind, or was this going to lead to an opportunity to get the two of you home? 

Daryl, however, didn’t have as much of a nuanced reaction as you did. “Yeah, he should stick to math.”

“So, you think this guy in Laurent’s picture… is Daryl?”

Isabelle seemed to ignore your line of questioning, as if it was obvious. “Three weeks ago. Before you came.”

Daryl lifted a black wool coat over his shoulders. “He drew a guy on a beach. So what?”

Once again, Isabelle’s eyes were focused on Daryl. Whatever part you had in this, if any at all, was apparently nowhere near as important as his. You might’ve been slightly offended if you weren’t confused. 

“I saw you fight the Guerrières,” she replied. “I know you can get him there safely.”

You inserted yourself once again, practically jumping in between Isabelle and Daryl. “Get him where?” you asked, or rather, demanded. 

Daryl held up his hand as if to signal her to stop. “I have no idea what you’re talkin’ about,” Daryl said, his voice bordering on exhausted now, as if he was tired of even entertaining this. Daryl turned to you now as he slung one strap of his pack over his shoulder. “(Y/N),” he said, “get your stuff. Seriously.”

Despite your bewilderment laced with a heavy dose of irritation, you couldn’t help but be entranced by the nun’s words. Your curiosity, once again, had gotten the better of you. “Hold on, I want to hear this,” you said, half out of hope that perhaps it could somehow lead you to getting home, and half out of sheer entertainment value. 

Daryl huffed as he shook his head, not ready to argue with you, but ready to move out of this stuffy room and get going, with you kicking and screaming if he had to. 

“Our leader is a Buddhist monk,” Isabelle continued. “He came through on a pilgrimage some years ago. He recognized something in Laurent, an answer to a prophecy.”

“Prophecy?” you asked, but Isabelle once again did not directly indulge your curiosity. Meanwhile, Daryl pushed past you towards the door, though you and he both knew he wasn’t going anywhere without you. 

Isabelle followed Daryl, and you followed swiftly behind. She spoke rapidly, trying to get every last word of context out as if somehow that would persuade him. But you knew Daryl, and you knew that the only way of persuading him to do anything in this situation was if Isabelle offered him some sort of lead regarding your journey home. For your part, you hoped that encouraging her to ramble like her life depended on it would do just that. 

“L’Union has a base up north, a community that will raise and nurture him to be who he was born to be.”

“‘Who he was born to be?’” Daryl repeated, opening the doors into the corridor. 

“Six months ago, Lama Rinpoche said it was time,” she sputtered as she hurried to match Daryl’s longer strides. “Pére Jean was supposed to escort him, but… Well, you saw.”

“Yeah, I did. You got him locked up, thinkin’ the prayers and poetry are gonna fix him.” Daryl turned the corner, into the foyer, and then the armory. 

“Laurent is special,” continued Isabelle. “I think you see that.”

“Do I?”

“His mother died in childbirth,” Isabelle continued. You listened much more intently than Daryl seemed to, but she still spoke directly to him. “He shouldn’t have survived that. It’s a miracle he’s even alive. 

You stood cross-armed, leaning against the wall as you watched Daryl pick through the weapons. The first thing he grabbed was a simple wooden crossbow. It wasn’t at all like his, but the likelihood of ever seeing that crossbow again was next to nothing. He picked up bolts, too, and a morningstar. You never could figure out how to use that thing, despite how many times Daryl had attempted to show you. 

With the morningstar in his hand, he lifted it up to show it to Isabelle, while his eyes still focused on the rest of the weapons laid out before him. He was like a kid in a candy store, though much grumpier. 

“Can I borrow this?” he asked, though he didn’t seem keen on receiving an answer. 

“He’s shown abilities,” Isabelle continued, once again. “Perceptions. Compassion beyond any child.”

Daryl turned with his haul to focus his attention on the weapons behind him. Isabelle seemed to grow frustrated now too, but only just the slightest bit. That calm demeanor was hard to penetrate. 

“He sees into people,” she said more firmly now. You recalled how Laurent had taken one look at you and known exactly what you were feeling. Granted, the rational explanation was that he had known you and Daryl were far from home from talking to Isabelle prior, so it wouldn’t have been a stretch for him to assume that you were, indeed, homesick.

Of course, you thought Robin was very perceptive and emotionally intelligent, too. Robin was special to you, but all mothers believe their children to be special. It was nothing more than a simple personality trait, as far as you were concerned. 

“We used to have a kid like that in grade school,” Daryl remarked. “He used to get his ass kicked a lot.” Daryl unsheathed a dagger as he spoke, then held it up to Isabelle, once again feigning his need for permission. “I’m gonna borrow this too, all right?”

“He needs teaching. Guidance we cannot provide. He’ll be safer there, nurtured… Until he’s ready.”

In one last burst of energized curiosity, you stepped forward to garner Isabelle’s attention. “Ready for what?” you asked, and this time, if Isabelle wasn’t straightforward, you were sure you were about to scream. 

Isabelle’s gaze found you, her eyes ice cold and alert. Circles of pale blue encapsulated sharp black pupils that penetrated your own until you felt like you could see inside her mind if you tried hard enough. She seemed crazed, in a way, but also perfectly sane. Maybe it’s because what she was about to say would sound crazy to you, but to her, it was just logic. 

“To be the new Messiah.”

Your eyes blinked in quick succession, as if to somehow blink away whatever she had just said to you in complete seriousness. You had only mostly been joking with your theories about these nuns being religious wackos. In this particular instance, you hated being proven right. 

“To lead the revival of humanity,” Isabelle added. It did not make you feel any less creeped out.

“Yep,” you said. “We’re out of here.”

The next several moments were a blur, but you soon found yourself watching Daryl yank the keychain from the frantic nun’s belt. He turned towards the door to Pére Jean’s study while she continued to rant about Laurent’s destiny. You couldn’t catch exactly what she was saying as you pushed past her behind Daryl to hurry into the office, your sights set on that radio. 

“Don’t you see?” Isabelle continued, nearly out of breath at this point. “This is why you’re here. This is why you washed ashore. This is why I was on the road that day. This is why you were saved.”

Daryl ignored her, rummaging around the room for anything that might’ve been useful on your journey while you fiddled with a few of the buttons and dials. It didn’t seem to respond to your prodding. 

“Everything happens for a reason,” she added, paying no mind to you and focusing solely on Daryl. 

“Can you fire this thing up?” you asked.

She looked at you in slight confusion, as though she couldn’t fathom your inability to take what she said seriously. You knew she believed it with every fiber in her being, but that didn’t make it true.

“The tube broke a month ago.”

You paused your movements as you processed her words, bile rising up in your esophagus and burning your throat. As for Daryl, he turned with a sharpness that startled even you. 

“What?” he asked. 

Isabelle’s eyes sank so as not to capture the wrath of Daryl’s stare. “I’ve been trying to get a replacement,” she said, more quietly than before.

Your anger was quickly replaced with hopelessness as you stood up and sighed. Of course the one thing that might be of some immediate help in getting you home was not working. 

But Daryl’s anger was potent, more like a searing sting than a raging maelstrom. Still, the storm wasn’t far off. One more inconvenience might tip him over the edge. 

Daryl huffed a chuckle of disbelief, then pointed an accusatory finger at the nun. His voice lowered to a growl as he spoke. “You’ve been fuckin’ with us.”

Silence settled uncomfortably between the three of you. Looking between them, you felt the role of mediator begin to overcome you, whether you liked it or not. “Is there… Is there any way we could find a boat, or maybe some kind of settlement that has a boat? Someone who can get us home?”

You didn’t know what to make of Isabelle’s next period of silence. It was clear that she was thinking, but you could not make heads or tails of what. Perhaps she was thinking of a way for the two of you to get home, or perhaps she was concocting some kind of plan that would get the two of you to do whatever it was she wanted. You didn’t think she would let you go that easily, not with how passionately she spoke just moments ago.

“There’s a port up north that may still be active.”

Daryl jumped in before you could even respond. “Show me.” His arm raised towards the large map of France sprawled out on the wall. 

“Le Havre,” replied Isabelle, and your eyes darted to where she pointed: a star demarcating a city in the north of France, only a stretch of sea separating it from Britain. The city’s name was written in slanted letters that were bigger than the myriad smaller names surrounding it, but less prominent than the not-too-distant PARIS. It must’ve been a rather major city in its heyday.

“We’ve heard rumors of ships that come and go. But it’s just rumors.”

Turning to look at Daryl, you noticed his focus was fixed on the map. His eyes moved quickly over the lines that stretched across the colored surface like veins. His hand floated up to his chin absentmindedly as his mind processed a dozen or so thoughts. You watched his index finger rub against the skin just under his bottom lip, back and forth. You found yourself holding your breath, waiting for him to speak. 

Daryl’s thoughts collided into one, unified by a piece of red thread pinned to the map in a jagged line, surely demarcating some kind of important route. His finger wagged to trace the line in the air as he spoke, “What is this route that’s marked out right here?”

“That’s Pére Jean’s plan to get the boy up north,” replied Isabelle.

You moved closer, your eyes pinpointing various golden pushpins lodged into the thread, each matching up with a town or city noted on the map.

“What do these pins indicate?” you asked. 

“They’re stops,” she answered. “Places where we have friends who can help to connect us, radio frequencies.”

A swell of hope rose up in you as you turned to Daryl with wide, bright eyes. Daryl’s attention was caught by your hand squeezing his forearm, further indicating your renewed vigor. “We can take that route up to the port, honey.”

Isabelle seemed to catch onto your enthusiasm. “It’s a treacherous path north,” she said. “Hard to find your way.” The nun turned to you and Daryl with something almost smug in her voice as she spoke. “Harder if you don’t speak French.”

Your heart sank at her discouragement, but Daryl was unmoving. “Get your stuff,” he said to you. This time, you would do so.

In the room you’d awoken in, you scrambled to compile whatever scraps of clothing you’d picked up on the way here, and whatever was left of the clothes you washed up in. Pivoting your head in all sorts of directions, you searched for the large denim vest you’d been wearing. It was nearly brand new when you’d left home weeks ago, its faded Levi’s tag still hanging on by a thread before you yanked it off. Now, it was torn in more than a few places and stained by blood and oil and God only knew what else. 

But after a few more frantic turns, you spied it folded neatly on a chair across the room. It wasn’t the vest that mattered, though. It was the contents of its inner pocket. 

You hadn’t found yourself the time to check if the photos were still tucked in where they’d been before, but you figured now was as good a time as any. 

With a sigh of relief, you removed the Polaroids from the pocket, zipped up and sealed away from the sea water that had engulfed you in the chaos of that night. 

Some water had come through, but not enough to mar the image of Robin holding baby Westley in her arms, or Dog and Robin playing in a pile of leaves as Daryl watched in amusement. Every photograph revived another memory as you flipped through them, until the images were clouded by your tears. 

That was another reason you’d been dreading checking your pocket―the inevitable sadness that would overcome you if you saw what you’d so foolishly left behind. 

It hadn’t been for nothing, of course. You’d never leave home for nothing. It was for Michonne, for Rick. That was the point of all this, and look where it had gotten you. And there was so much to scold yourself for.

For letting Daryl go. 

For agreeing to go with him when he asked.

For wanting to be a better wife in the place of being a better mother.

Or at least, that’s what you saw it as now. Why couldn’t you let him go alone? After all, he’d gone out alone more times than you could count ever since the prison. You weren’t a stranger to the concept of Daryl leaving you for sometimes weeks at a time, but this time was different. Daryl had asked you to go. Wanted you to go. You’d joked that it was like a vacation, but it wasn’t. Both of you knew that. 

But a part of you was glad you’d gone. If Daryl had gotten into this mess himself, you knew yourself enough to know that you would’ve gone after him anyway, leaving the children in Alexandria no matter what. It was inevitable, you supposed. You hated it. The idea of them alone terrified you, though you hadn’t let yourself dwell on it much until now. 

And that’s when your breathing became rapid, your heart pounding while every hair on your body stood on end as you thought of every horrible thing that could possibly happen while you were gone. Each second you stood here was another moment in which the unthinkable could happen to everyone and everything you loved. Hot tears seemed to burn their way down your cheeks, despite how hard you tried to hold them back. A pointless endeavor.

Just as you began to let yourself cry, to let yourself fully feel the weight of what you’d let happen, you heard your name on Daryl’s voice, calling to you from outside. “Let’s go!” he called out.

You swiped your face with your sleeve, and swallowed the unborn tears. 

Outside, you lugged your bag over your shoulder to meet up with Daryl, who stood outside near the front gate. Isabelle stood facing him, while the other nuns, perhaps a dozen or so of them, scattered about as if to watch the outsiders leave. Entertainment, you supposed. Or maybe a way to make sure the two of you were really gone.

Laurent was there, too, and you heard him say something to Daryl, but by the time you made it within earshot, he was quiet. 

“It ain’t my problem,” Daryl said to Isabelle, and that was all you could catch of their conversation. 

The nun’s face looked dejected, hopeless. Though you’d felt mostly annoyed with the woman throughout your stay thus far, even though the reasons weren’t very justified, you couldn’t help but feel sympathy. Perhaps you had no idea what she was going through, nor she you, but at least you could understand her sadness, for whatever it was worth.

“Thank you,” you said, trying to make up for Daryl’s lack of manners. “For helping us.”

Isabelle smiled softly, but there was still a great sadness in her eyes. Daryl made his way towards the heavy wooden door that separated the abbey from the outside world, expecting you to follow.

“And, um… good luck. With everything.”

She only nodded in response, which you took as your signal to leave. 

A dirt road made by tire tracks in the ground led the two of you away from the abbey, into the surrounding woods. Maybe less than a mile or so had you walked in near silence, only the sound of gravel underfoot, until you spoke.

“You know, you could’ve at least said thank you.”

Daryl’s brows knit together as he looked at you. “What?”

“Back at the abbey. I don’t like the woman very much but she might’ve saved our lives, especially yours. She let us take weapons, food for the road…”

“Pfft,” he scoffed. “You on a high horse now?”

Smiling, you shook your head. “No, I just… I don’t know. They might be crazy but at least they helped us.”

“Yeah, helped us ‘cause they think I’m The Messenger.” Daryl’s voice rose as he mimicked Isabelle’s words. You snorted and lightly shoved his shoulder with yours.

“Mm, yeah. You notice how everyone there was super interested in you, but not in me?”

One corner of Daryl’s lips curled every so slightly as he looked at you with playful, but tired, eyes. “You jealous again?”

“No,” you laughed. “Well, I mean…”

Your voice trailed off as the sound of distant engines grew louder with each moment that passed. Daryl looked back towards the abbey, but it wasn’t coming from that direction. He turned the other way, and sure enough, it was coming closer—towards the two of you.

There were no words exchanged in this moment, only the feeling of Daryl’s hand grasping your wrist and pulling you to the side of the road, into the wild shrubbery. 

Peering through the gently rustling leaves, you watched as a caravan of vehicles zoomed past, heading towards the abbey. You recognized the military-grade jeeps, their insignia painted in white flashing by fast but just enough that you could recognize it from yesterday. It must’ve been the same group that had attacked you, and if it was, then that would undoubtedly spell trouble for the nuns.

Daryl’s eyes were locked onto the caravan until it disappeared into the overgrown woods that shrouded the walls of the abbey. His mind was at war within itself, thoughts of making a break for it with you and leaving the nuns to their fate battling with the moral dilemma that would inevitably haunt him if he did so. And then there was you, of course, who he knew would be against the idea, tempting as it was. 

But of course he couldn’t do that. The nuns were well-equipped thanks to the armory, but clearly not experienced in fighting living human beings with automatic weapons. Simple firearms and medieval weapons in the hands of even the most experienced fighter would still be challenged against such a militarized force. 

“They’re heading for the abbey,” you said quietly, your voice barely rising above the now distant grumbling of engines. “If we start back now, we can catch up to them before―”

“Nah,” he replied. He looked at you for a moment, watching your face go from confused to annoyed very quickly. “You stay here, I’ll go.”

After over ten years together, you’d think he’d understand that that simply wasn’t how this was going to work, but he had to try. 

You tilted your head in questioning. “You’re joking, right?”

He wasn’t.

After some whisper-bickering on the way back to the abbey, the two of you had come to an agreement that you’d wait just outside the front gate, ready to come to Daryl’s aid if he had been gone a suspiciously long time or if you heard something going awry. Daryl had managed to somehow convince you that only one of you going in made more sense than both of you risking your lives for the nuns, but you weren’t exactly happy about it. Any situation which alleviated Daryl’s stress was bound to send yours off the charts.

If you’d had a watch, you might’ve timed him, but alas. All you could do was count the seconds in your head, and keep your eyes and ears open. Leaning against the brick wall, you huffed out an exasperated breath as you squeezed the handle of your hammer with both hands. After a while, you had half a mind to go in there despite nothing particularly alarming happening, until the first gunshot. 

Meanwhile, Daryl kept his back pressed against the wall beside the door to the room he’d awakened in. His eyes were focused on the pointed end of the bayonet that slowly inched its way through the doorway, but not very far.

He lifted an axe he’d “borrowed” from the armory and brought it down swiftly upon the bayonet, disarming and momentarily startling the young man who’d held it. Daryl quickly pinned him against the door, then from the corner of his eye, another figure caught his attention. 

The man raised a handgun and pointed it in Daryl’s direction, but Daryl was quick enough to use the other man as a human shield, his back absorbing the bullets that were fired. Throwing the lifeless body to the side, Daryl lunged forwards to strike the man across the face and knock the gun loose from his hand. He threw another punch, this time propelling the man backwards until he landed upon a table. Daryl came forward to further incapacitate him, but he was able to kick Daryl back with great force.

Daryl stumbled back several feet, but did not fall. This man was strong, and wouldn’t go easily. That much was evident. 

Now with the upper man, the man forced Daryl against the wall, delivering several hits to his stomach before turning him and throwing him hard against the floor. A few particularly frustrated kicks were administered to his abdomen, accompanied by loud grunts to further illustrate the Frenchman’s frustration. 

Finally, the man let up, only to turn and retrieve his discarded handgun. 

In the courtyard, you rushed past a bloodied scene of several nuns’ bodies, as well as those of most of the men from the caravan, strewn over the stones of the pathway. With your axe held firmly, you called out to Daryl, looking wide-eyed around the once peaceful abbey. 

You did not find Daryl, but Isabelle, her flowing white figure turning to look at you as she processed the sound of your voice. You ran towards her, noticing the shock and distress upon her features. Coming closer, you took her wrist into a firm grasp, as if to not let her get away. 

“Where’s Daryl? Did you see him?”

She did not speak for a moment, only nodding rapidly as she began to awaken from her shocked stupor. 

“Yes… H-he went inside. This way.”

Daryl’s life flashed before his eyes, or so it seemed. Of course, that had happened many times before, but this time, he was sure it was the real thing as the Frenchman stood above him, the barrel of his gun perfectly aimed between Daryl’s widened eyes. In a knee-jerk reaction, he held up his hands as if to block the bullet, but it did not matter…

Rounding the corner and stumbling into the hall, you saw the scene for yourself. Without hesitation, you bolted towards the man, axe held high and all your strength channeled into that swing. 

Bringing down the axe, you hit the hand that held the gun, causing the man to grunt in pain. The blade might’ve been too dull to cause any irreversible damage, but it was enough to disarm him and to send him backwards, away from Daryl. 

The force of your attack sent even you spinning backwards, but you quickly oriented yourself with the intention of striking the man again, though he’d been quick enough to start making a run for the exit. 

Daryl wasted no time in retrieving the gun, coming back up to his feet after the wind had been knocked out of him and into another dimension. Aiming the gun, he shot. 

His aim, though, was less than stellar, given the state of his swimming head. The bullet struck the man only in the shoulder, sending him only slightly stumbling as he continued dashing towards the foyer. 

As you both followed behind, you were met with a still bewildered Isabelle and a frantic older nun, who practically threw herself in front of Daryl as he tried to aim the gun towards the escapee once more. 

“Please. Please. Please, please!” she repeated emphatically, her hands at one point grabbing Daryl with what little strength she had. “Show mercy!”

Daryl, of course, ignored these pleas. As far as he was concerned, these people were not deserving of something that even the most good-hearted of people were so rarely afforded in this world. He continued on to chase after the man, and you were set to follow, but suddenly, you saw the older nun begin to tremble, her legs seeming to fold underneath her. 

Isabelle moved quickly to stabilize her, but gravity was beckoning her weak body. You hesitated for a moment, fighting the urge to help the nun as well as the urge to follow Daryl and make sure he didn’t get himself in trouble again. Your heart, however, kept your eyes glued to Isabelle and the older woman as she struggled to keep her steady. 

Dropping your axe, you moved to the shaky nun’s other side to hold her weight, taking some burden off Isabelle. Looking around, your eyes fixed onto the nearest perch—the stone steps at the base of the staircase.

“There,” you said, nudging your head towards the stairs. “She needs to sit down.”

The two of you helped the nun to the steps, sitting her down gently between you. She naturally leaned herself against Isabelle, who wrapped her arm around her. You took a moment to look her over, noticing blood pooling in her abdomen. Isabelle moved her hand over the wound, but both of you knew there was nothing that could be done. It was too deep, and too much blood had already been lost. Even now, you could see the color of the older woman’s face, which once might’ve been so full of life, draining to a ghastly pallor. 

Still, you had to try. 

Taking off your jacket, you were about to press it to the wound, but the nun shook her head and looked at you, her eyes with a familiar dullness that you’d seen before in those near death.

“No,” she said. “It is my time… There is no use.”

Just then, Daryl returned, appearing slightly defeated after the man he’d given chase to had escaped. He came closer, kneeling next to you. The nun reached out a shaky hand towards him. He hesitated for just a moment, then reached his own hand out to meet hers. 

“You don’t believe,” she said. “Maybe you never saw a reason to. But one thing I know… reasons are everywhere.”

You watched night fall from your room, the same one you’d awoken in. Daryl had insisted you rest after burying the nuns that had fallen, of which only two remained: Isabelle, of course, and Sylvie. Laurent had been spared, too, much to your relief. But it seemed yours and Daryl’s fates were tied much closer to these new acquaintances than you’d realized. The events of that day had proven as much. 

As you watched the flame of a nearby candle dance with languid melancholy, the door to the room creaked open slowly. You turned on your side to face the door to be met with Daryl, his tired face illuminated by a gold flicker. He looked defeated, as he had been, but with a nearly imperceptible glimmer of hope in his eyes. You might not have noticed if you hadn’t seen it before, but you had, and it intrigued you.

“What is it?”

He sat on the edge of the small bed where you laid, his hand resting on your thigh over the threadbare blanket that covered you. He took a deep breath, which spoke of conflicted emotions, followed by his hoarse, tired voice.

“We’re takin’ them to the port.”

You sat up slightly, intrigued by this news. “We are?”

“Yeah… Figured we ain’t got much of a choice.”

You nodded, agreeing that taking Laurent to this “sanctuary” that Isabelle spoke of was probably your best bet for getting home, even if it wasn’t ideal to have to worry about three other people. 

“I guess it’s sort of a win-win situation. We help them get to where they want to go, and they help us get to where we want to go.” 

“Guess so.”

Silence settled in between you, its presence heavy and filled with words unspoken. You sat up fully, reaching out to touch his shoulders. They were as strong as always, but slumped over slightly. This all weighed so heavily on him, the responsibility. It always does. You knew that he’d never forgive himself, but you could try to reassure him, like you always did.

“None of this is your fault,” you said, knowing that it was what he needed to hear. You leaned closer, pressing yourself against his back and resting your chin upon his shoulder. Your arms wrap around his waist as tightly as they can. This might have been the most intimate you’ve been with him since washing ashore here. It was certainly the closest you’ve felt to him since.

And he felt an immense weight lift off his shoulders, one which he knows will inevitably return, but in this moment, it’s dissipated completely. His body sunk into your embrace, and the tightness in his chest is relieved by a long, deep breath. It’s not just your touch that eased his mind, but your words. Every part of him wanted to object because he knew deep down that it was his fault. It was hard for him to even imagine that it wasn’t. Still, to know that you didn’t blame him, that you still loved him… It made the load he will always carry feel lighter. 

“We will get home. I know it.” 

You punctuated your statement with a firm kiss to his cheek. His head turned slowly towards yours, his lips meeting yours in a more urgent kiss, one that felt like a promise. Daryl could always say more with his body than with his words, and that’s what he did now—he pulled you closer, now locked in his embrace. His mouth did not separate from yours even for a moment. There was devotion in his kiss, in his hands as they crept up your back and moved up and down in slow, firm caresses. Words couldn’t communicate what he told you with one embrace, but you knew that no matter what fate had in store for you, Daryl would rearrange the stars to change the course of destiny as long as it meant the two of you would make it home. Together.

When your lips separated, you were lost in his eyes, so familiar, like they were windows through which you could see Robin and Wes, waiting patiently in the living room for their parents’ return. If you looked long enough, you were sure you could see yourself and Daryl coming in through the front door to be greeted with open arms.

~

Thanks for reading! Likes, reblogs, and comments of any kind are always appreciated!

Series Masterlist Next Chapter ➳

[nauticheric]

Crystal Clear

Jason Voorhees x Black!Female Reader

Warnings: Period accurate racism, antiblackness + antiblack violence, violence, drowning, implied murder, period accurate ableism, this is a fic dedicated to all of the black girls out there who had to suffer through going to PWIs and all the discrimination in white academia that comes with it

Word Count: 4k

Excerpt: "You should have listened to your cousins. You’d always been extremely receptive of their advice, bordering on harsh criticism, so you didn’t quite understand why this time had been any different. Maybe it was because you’d finally graduated. Class of 1983. Convinced that walking across the stage would suddenly, magically, cure the deep seated bigotry present in the people you’d been going to school with since the 1st grade. 

“Never get on a boat with no white folks.” 

That’s what they’d said. You’d all laughed about it at the time, you much harder than the others, before your cousin wiped away tears that never actually shed and faced you with complete sincerity."

You should have listened to your cousins. You’d always been extremely receptive of their advice, bordering on harsh criticism, so you didn’t quite understand why this time had been any different. Maybe it was because you’d finally graduated. Class of 1983. Convinced that walking across the stage would suddenly, magically, cure the deep seated bigotry present in the people you’d been going to school with since the 1st grade. 

“Never get on a boat with no white folks.” 

That’s what they’d said. You’d all laughed about it at the time, you much harder than the others, before your cousin wiped away tears that never actually shed and faced you with complete sincerity. 

“Seriously. Especially if you’re the only black person there.”

You told yourself it was 1983, not 1957, and forced the smile to reach your eyes as you sat in the back of Jenny's boyfriend's rusty red 1974 Jeep Cherokee. You’d known Jenny since you were 6 years old, although she didn’t actually give you the time of day until the last year of junior high, and she was nice enough. Funny, pretty, and rich with sharp cheekbones and a blown out blonde bob. Except her boyfriend, Donald, looked like her blood related cousin, because Jenny had always been clear that she didn’t associate with brunettes; so, in the face of the 5 blondes (1 of which you were sure wasn’t naturally so) and singular ginger you’d be on the trip with, you painstakingly flat ironed your hair. Convinced that if you were going to stand out with your dark hair color, you weren’t going to give them any other ammunition to work with. Which, only served to add to the misery you were trying to suppress involving the trip, because you were all heading to Donald's family's lake cabin. In the middle of nowhere rural New Jersey, some “quaint” little place called Crystal Lake. 

You should have listened. You think maybe, above all else, you went because you were finally free. A final reminder of why going to PWIs all your life had been so miserable. A final reminder of all the things you actually enjoyed, and desiped, about these people you had resigned to call your friends. A final goodbye as the HBCU you were accepted to welcomed you with open arms, just beyond the horizon. 

You were on Donald's family's boat less than an hour after your arrival to the cabin. After the conversation with your cousins you’d done a bit of research at the local library, stumbling upon the story of Oscarville and Lake Lanier down in Georgia. The whole thing shook you so deeply to your core that you didn’t even bother packing any swimwear. You’d convinced yourself that you were being far too paranoid enough to let yourself actually get on the boat, but you’d be damned if you were actually going to let yourself get into the water. So, you put on your floral, silk, bell sleeved wrap top and high waisted shorts, and hoped that no one would actually make mention of it. You understand immediately why the town is named after the lake. It’s larger than any lake you’d ever seen. You almost convinced yourself that Donald’s family had the cabin custom built in this area, due to being unable to see any structures on the other side, with how far the opposing shoreline was. The water's surface looks like an expansive panel of glass, reflecting the sun's gentle rays in sparkling diamonds of rainbow light. You absentmindedly think that if this behemoth of a pool froze over in winter, the chunk of ice retrieved from it could be sold as the rock at the center of a wedding ring. As the boat pulls away from the dock where it’s stationed most of the year, the waves sent away from the vehicle's motor create such a clear path in the water that you can see the fish swimming just beneath the surface. There’s a part of you that desires to reach down and run the tips of your fingers through the water. You push it deep inside of you. 

“You know, a boy drowned out here back in 1957.”

Is the first thing that Nathan, Donalds best friend and captain of the high school basketball team, says when you guys settle at the center of the lake. You internally grimace, hoping that he’s just being an ass, before Donald speaks up, 

“Yup. Then his mother came back a year later and slaughtered two of the camp counselors responsible. Then she came back in 1979 and slaughtered several more innocent people.” 

Your stomach begins to stir as you listen to them speak. 

“Now why’d she go and do that?” 

Asks Arlene, the singular ginger amongst your group, with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. Nathan has his arm thrown around her, laughing at her doubt of the tale being spun. 

“Well, the story goes that the woman, Pamela Voorhees, had her boy Jason with her while she worked at the summer camp. Her son, well, you know…he was a-” 

Donald says the word with such a casualty that it makes you physically flinch. You hope no one saw, as you frown deeply, imagining this little disabled boy's everyday life in the 50’s.

“Apparently the little guy couldn’t swim. He fell into the lake, or something like that, and no one came to save him. The camp counselors were too busy getting it on in the cabins to notice-” 

Donald makes a gyrating movement with his hips to really punctuate his words, causing giggles all around. You force the same noise past your lips.

“I don’t know, I guess the little fucker couldn’t make it back to shore and he drowned. Then Pamela went on a whole vengeance killing spree against sexually deviant teenagers as punishment.” 

Nathan makes an “oo”-ing sound, wiggling his fingers in Arlene's face, who rolls her eyes and slaps his hand away with a smile. 

“But, where things really get interesting is that back in ‘79 one of the counselors fought back. She beheaded Pamela and, if you believe it, apparently Jason woke up at the death of his mother. Rising from the bottom of the lake, donning a hockey mask and a machete, he slaughters anyone unlucky enough to cross his path around the forest. Apparently he’s responsible for dozens of murders around here over the past couple years.” 

Laughter erupts around the boat, for some reason you don’t quite understand, and a shiver goes down your spine. The whole situation makes you extremely uncomfortable. If you'd known that there were apparently dozens of homicides, blood seeping into Crystal Lakes waters, you would have just stayed home. Locked yourself in your bedroom until fall and rushed into the waiting arms of your shining HBCU without ever looking back. 

Apparently you don’t hold back your discomfort well enough, because suddenly the full weight of Jennys eyes are on you. You know it immediately, an ever familiar sensation, usually followed by laughter at your expense in high school. 

“Speaking of which,”

She starts, voice deceptively sweet. 

“[Y/n], is it true that black people don’t know how to swim?” 

Your stomach drops, the feeling exasperated further by the barely muffled laughter of everyone else on the boat. 

“Especially if you’re the only black person there.”

You’re met with the realization that you have no allies here. You school your expression, 12 years of dealing with this specific brand of ignorance having taught you that showing any emotion will only lead to further degradation.

“No…that’s an unfairly perpetuated stereotype.” 

You respond, cordial, as if you’re writing an academic essay and not having, supposedly, casual conversation with, supposed, peers. Constantly having to prove to the people around you that you’re just as intelligent as they are, just as worthy of taking seriously, as if you didn’t get into a university with a 4% acceptance rate. You feel the eyes of every person on you now. It’s unnerving. 

“Oh really?”

Jenny begins, taking a few steps closer towards you. Your hackles raise, breath hitching, but you try to push the ever increasing feeling of danger down inside. You try to convince yourself that it’s paranoia. That it’s 1983. 

“Then why aren’t you wearing a swimsuit?”

On anyone else it would seem like such an innocent question. Her voice is even, a bit airy, and she smiles as she says it. However, the way her blue eyes crease just underneath light bottom lashes is all too familiar. A repeated reminder of your white classmates' cruelty. And before you can even manage to get an answer out, there’s a heavy force at the center of your chest, and then you feel weightless momentarily. You don’t notice the way Donalds fingers curl around the steering wheel of the boat, as your back hits the water. Jenny pushed you in, you realize all too late. Body fully submerged and slowly sinking more and more. 

The water is suddenly not so crystal clear, not so peaceful, from this side. It’s darker than it has any right being, which is so unnerving considering how warm it actually is. Your shirt has a bit of extra weight to it, not built for being wet like this, but you manage to breach the water's surface. You blink the droplets from your eyes, vision steadily clearing and you greedily gulp up the air around you, but even more panic begins to set in as you watch the steadily shrinking image of the boat in the distance. They’ve pushed you into the water. Then they’ve driven off without you. Leaving you in the center of Crystal Lake. A lake so wide that you’re sure it’d take you well over an hour to swim to the other side. 

The panic that fills you is sharp and all encompassing, and whether it’s an “unfairly perpetuated stereotype” or not, you suddenly begin to sink under the water's surface. You desperately claw around you, hoping to grab onto something, anything. However, your panic clouds your judgement, and as you gasp around the air above the surface you take in a mouthful of lake water. Suddenly your throat and nose begin to burn simultaneously as you sink further and further into the lake's depths. You vaguely wonder, in the back of your fear riddled mind, if you’ll find a town at the bottom. A town housing hundreds of black residents and one, sole, little white boy. Cared for and forever watched in ways that the people on the land above failed to. 

Everything is black for a long while. Like an inverted version of Crystal Lakes miles of glass panelling. It’s peaceful, oddly enough, but there’s this ever increasing sense of panic that starts at the center of your chest, before spreading through the rest of your body, constricting your lungs. Then, there’s a heavy weight pressed to the center of your chest once more, and suddenly it’s no longer panic you’re feeling. The weight is heavy, brutally crushing, borderline painful, but, as you come to realize, it’s physical. Your eyes are flying open, the suddenly setting sun blanketing your face. You’re vomiting up lake water and it burns worse than any vodka, tequila, or whiskey you’ve ever had. You’re coughing repeatedly, eyes instinctually clenched shut, and that burns even worse than the vomit. It rumbles deep within your sternum, as if the bone is breaking with every convulsion of your body. 

It takes several minutes to stop the coughing fit. You’re greedily drinking in the air around you, clawing at the solid ground underneath you. You fight the desire to lower yourself to the dirt and pepper it with kisses. Suddenly thankful for something as simple as grass to stand on, something you’d, foolishly, taken for granted everyday. You take a few minutes to breathe, something else you realize you’d taken for granted, before rolling your body over. You face the sunlight, willing it to take you into its loving arms, like you’re a child being wrapped in a warm towel. However, as your vision clears, that’s when you see it. Or, rather, him. The face of your savior, as you, foolishly once again, begin to process the fact that you didn’t just drag yourself out of that lake. 

“Donning a hockey mask and a machete, he slaughters anyone unlucky enough to cross his path.” 

Donald's voice rings in your ears, as you come face to face with empty voids in the middle of the reflective white surface of a mask. Broad figure, nearly popping the buttons off his forest green shirt, meaty fingers twitching from where they clench around the handle of a rusted, blood stained, machete. Your throat burns once more, as you nearly choke from where your heart has jumped and lodged itself. You’re hyperventilating as the figure stands motionless in front of you. Some frantic, desperate, part of your brain tries convincing you that this is a hallucination, spurred on by your very recent near death experience. Then he tilts his head in a, dare you’d say, curious fashion, and that just cements him as entirely real in your mind. 

Fear strikes you like lightning, as you sit up fully. Your legs are extremely sore so you only muster up the strength to push yourself backwards with the help of your scrambling hands. You don’t get far as your back hits the trunk of a rotting tree. Your head sags against the surface, the world around you spinning with the sudden movement. The back of your neck is warm and wet and you instinctively reach for your nape, wondering, for some odd reason, if you’re bleeding. As your fingers curl into the area the thought flies out the window. The digits curl around the strands of your hair, which has returned completely to its coily state. The hair that you worked so hard on this morning. The hair you, specifically, straightened for the people you’d be going on this trip with. You’d always been unwilling to relax your hair. You couldn’t bring yourself to kill off that part of you. And it was all going to be worth it, because you were going to a HBCU in the fall. You think of the hair iron and silk bonnet you’d packed in your bag for this trip, willing to take every precaution necessary to what? Make these people more comfortable? Make yourself more desirable to people who couldn’t care either way? Your heart rapidly begins to pick up speed, like a rabbit caught in the maw of a fox, and your whole face grows hot. 

You’re suddenly sobbing. Crying fat, warm, tears, head pulsating violently. Your breaths shudder as you try to get yourself under control, but the floodgates have broken and there’s no stopping them now. You’re speaking without thinking, sure that this, apparently undead, serial killer doesn’t care all too much about what you have to say. 

“ My…my hair…”

You stutter around your words, in between sobs, 

“I-I just did my hair…”

Your face heats up even more. You feel so stupid. 

“I-I don’t understand…I don’t…wh-why would they do this to me? What did I ever do to them? I’ve…I’ve always tried so hard to get them to l-like me…and they-they-” 

You take rapid breaths inward at the end of the sentence, your panic rising again, 

“They tried to drown me! They left me there to drown!”

Saying it outloud fills you with a sorrow like nothing else you’ve ever experienced. This is it you think. This is rock bottom. 12 years of torment all culminating in a murder attempt. 

You don’t know how you expect the killer to respond, maybe he’ll finish the job the others failed at and put that machete through your neck, but it isn’t kneeling down in front of you. He moves unnervingly quiet and fast for someone so large. He’s balanced on one knee, machete still firmly in his grip. Your eyes track his movements, and the weapon, and that’s when you notice the darker color of the bottom half of his khaki pants. It’s as if they’d been submerged in water. You blink rapidly around your tears as your brain tries to catch up with the fact that Jason Voorhees is apparently the one who pulled you from the water. Did he do chest compressions? 

Suddenly he’s reaching out towards you. His tanned hand is visibly calloused and there’s a mixture of blood and dirt underneath his nails. Your eyes widen, tears continuing their way down your cheeks, and you freeze. Your brain takes a moment to process what’s happening. Then, not suddenly, extremely slow and with purpose, he takes a coiled strand of your wet hair between his pointer finger and thumb. He rolls the hair back and forth between his fingers, and you can’t see his eyes but you’re sure that he’s watching the way the droplets of water travel down his thumb rather than your face. You hear his breathing pick up at his own actions and you realize you hadn’t been sure he was breathing before. 

His movements are quick and extremely intentional when he stands next. You flinch, unsure of what to expect, but immediately relax whenever he’s holding a hand out to you. His knuckles face the earth, palm facing you, and that alone is enough to convince you that he has no intention of violence. It’s almost natural the way you place your hand into his. Your size doesn’t matter, he’s so inhumanely big that he dwarfs you in comparison, and you wonder how he grew to be so big if he apparently died whenever he was a child. He pulls you to your feet and your legs wobble and ache as he does so. You’re partially worried you’re going to collapse, but he’s a sturdy and guiding force that keeps you upright. 

Then he’s holding your hand in his, a gesture that borders on being extremely intimate, and he’s leading you into the forest. He walks extremely fast with his long legs and it’s kind of hellish for you to try and keep up. His arm is lagging behind him from where it clutches your hand. But then you slightly trip over a tree root and he stops so abruptly that you nearly crash right into him. He turns his gaze over his shoulder to you once more, pulling you closer into his side. He smells distinctly of lake water, coppery blood, and rot, but underneath it all you think you get the scent of sunlight and campfire smoke. That gentle reprieve, however, doesn’t negate the smell of viscera and death radiating from him, his presence equal parts comforting equal parts nauseating. Once he ensures that you’re right where he wants you to be, he continues onward, slowing his pace considerably to match yours. 

As he walks he’s taking sharp lefts and rights, the only sight for miles the sprawling trees, and you have no idea where he’s taking you. You think back to your final thoughts before your brush with death. As you sank lower and lower into Crystal Lakes clutches, images of Oscarville and a young Jason Voorhees. Of comfort and community in ways that he’d likely never experienced before in life. It hadn’t served to make death any less terrifying, unfortunately. However, there had been something comforting about the thought of someone consistently disregarded by society finding unconditional protection in the face of, what should have been, that society trying to snuff the life out of them forever. Maybe that’s why you let him continually lead you. Hoping that he’ll offer the same olive branch to you that Oscarville had offered to him. Although, you grimace internally, Oscarville was in Georgia and you’re in rural New Jersey. You wonder vaguely if nearly drowning can give you a concussion. 

The sun has dipped below the horizon by the time Jason finally stops. Your eyes have grown heavy with exhaustion from drowning and crying respectively, and you’d been, more or less, trusting him to lead you wherever it is he wanted you to go; eyes partially closed, brain completely turned off. After a minute or so of his hovering, you will your eyes to open, and your heart sinks at what you see.

It’s Donalds family's cabin. The lights illuminating from the windows, shadows moving, dancing, and you notice that your bags and suitcase are propped up against the back tire of the Jeep. Tears well in your eyes all over again as you turn to look at Jason. You think that the hurt is evident on your face, as you watch him shake his head in a “no” motion. The movement takes you aback momentarily, as you’d been slightly convinced that he was completely incapable of communication whatsoever. He continues, however, to prove you wrong, as he lifts his machete up from where it hovered at his waist before. You don’t have the energy in you to flinch anymore. He then points the tip of his blade at the outline of a figure in the window, and you can tell immediately that it's Jenny. Funny, pretty, and rich with sharp cheekbones and a blown out blonde bob.

There isn’t much but a sinking sense of dread as you stumble towards the cabin. Your newly found serial killer companion is no longer holding your hand but you can feel him hovering just behind you. You wonder how much of your murder attempt he actually saw. How long he’d been hovering, watching your group. A part of you wonders if he had planned on killing you before, but you don’t let yourself dwell on that as you make your way up the poarch, and you hear the laughing inside. Giggling and guffawing as if they didn’t just try to kill a person; in fact, as far as they know, they had succeeded. 

You feel yourself shaking with anger as you raise a fist to rap at the door. There’s a momentarily pause inside the cabin, before you hear a mumbled out, 

“Who the hell could that be at this time?” 

Followed by a, 

“Don’t worry, I’ll get it.” 

From Jenny. You hear the click of her, slightly heeled, slippers as she makes her way to the door, before your vision is being flooded with light. Your eyes are squinted, as you watch her face contort from a polite, confused, smile, to one of abject horror. Your shaking hand slowly curls into a fist, before she begins to stumble over her words. 

“[Y-Y/n]!” 

She squawks and at least she has the decency to sound genuinely shocked. You hear the music in the background abruptly cut off with the scrap of a needle, improperly, being lifted off of a record. You imagine that the vinyl probably has a deep, ugly, groove inside of it now. 

Jenny is at a loss for words, opening her mouth, before closing it again as she tries to find her words. 

“You pushed me in the lake.”

You speak with a drawl that is probably far too casual for the situation and anger you feel, but your throat is still extremely raw from everything you’ve been through today. 

“We-”

The other girl flusters. You see the others gathering not too far behind her, before she quickly composes herself. 

“I’m so sorry, [y/n]! We meant to come back for you, you know, but when we got back you were gone! We figured you’d swam back to shore!”

She lies like it's the easiest thing on earth. A part of you, nagging and tired, wants to just let her have it. Collapse forward and let them fake dote on you for an hour to save their own asses. A part of you that tells you arguing about this is so much more trouble than it's worth. A part of you that has been continuously beaten down and bruised by white academia. 

You take a step back from the doorway on wobbling legs, however. Unconditional protection you think. 

“You’re not sorry,”

You growl out, low, and oh so tired. 

“But you will be.” 

Is all you say before your vision is being clouded by the imposing figure of Jason Voorhees, as he steps out of the shadows and in the doorway between you and the rest of your former classmates. You don’t even flinch as the shrill sound of her scream fills your ears, a puddle of blood growing from underneath your murderer's boots. There’s scrambling inside as Jennys body drops limp, Jason stepping over her with purpose, as he travels inside the house to pick everyone else off. The funny, pretty, rich girl with the sharp cheekbones and blown out blonde bob is still alive, reaching out the same hand that pushed you into the lake towards your feet. She gurgles around the pain she’s surely in, as the sounds of slaughter ricochet off the walls of the cabin, but you can’t find it in you to care. You should have listened to your cousins. Now, you’re just grateful to be cared for and forever watched in ways that the people on the land above failed to. Now, you’re just grateful for companionship amongst the drowned.                              

[dtmsrpfcringe]

We don't hate women. We hate women who are abusive towards their partners.

Michael and David both deserve better and just because you want to buy into what PR and social media tells you, you don't have to attack other people for being upset over actors they care about possibly not being happy.

David wouldn't leave Georgia, they are married and have children, so he feels responsible. He always puts other people before himself. And Anna played it well with the babies, as harsh as it sounds. Michael would feel terrible leaving the girls. People staying in relationships doesn't prove you right, sadly. It's no sign of anything other than commitment and commitment doesn't always come from a place of love.

By saying that Michael and David shippers want to see them unhappy in their relationship, you show that you're missing the point. The whole point of shipping them is wanting them to be happy. You just want to be hateful towards people who don't suppprt your narrative, it seems.

GOD I WISH TUMBLR WOULD LET ME ADD TEXTS BEFORE ASKS SO I COULD SAY “Warning: you’re about to hear one of the most moronic takes I have ever heard” *insert gif of amanojaku from ghost stories here* okay let’s…we have to break this down it’s too much for me to just laugh at and go “wow this is dumb as hell”

“We don’t hate women, we just make up stuff so we can justify hating them”- you. where’s…where’s any shred of proof that either women are even a little bit abusive? I mean don’t you think we would have seen some of that by now? And no, enty lawyer doesn’t count as proof and neither does random screenshots of a bit of text with zero context. Also neither do jokes online with your partner when they’re okay with it (and make the same jokes quite literally all the time) and nobody sees a problem with it except the people that conveniently hate these women.

2. “Michael and David both deserve better” yes I’m sure the rich white middle aged men who are two of the most popular actors in their countries who have girlfriends/wives and kids who love and adore them are surely hurting because some weirdo on tumblr says it.

3. Hate to tell you this but married people with children divorce all the time. It’s not like if they divorce he is going to suddenly vanish in a puff of smoke babe.

4. Even if that’s true, your theory of him only staying out of responsibility is bullshit. Someone who stays for the kids isn’t going to dip their wife into a kiss on the red carpet and look at her like a hozier song sounds. If there’s any event or interview where he can find a way to praise Georgia, he does it. He always talks about her. After events they’ve been seen kissing deeply and walking arm in arm honeymoon style.

5. as for Anna and Michael, (David and Georgia too but they seem more open to pda) they don’t owe you pda. Michael has been more than adamant about defending his girlfriend on twitter and good for him about it.

6. if you guys were genuinely concerned with Michael and David’s impending relationship crashes, why is it always tied to their love for one another? The only people who see This rampant “abuse and unhappiness” is this group of people who believe David and Michael are actually in love and want to elope together. Nobody else. Not even other Sheenant shippers. You guys literally just hate them, I mean Invisibleicewands has been talking shit on Anna since she posted her first photo with Michael back in 2019 and hasn’t stopped.

7. “And Anna played it well with the babies, as harsh as it sounds.” seriously what the absolute crap is this supposed to mean my dude? I’ve gotta be honest….you know how smex works right? Michael could absolutely choose to use protection!!! Why is it on her? Not on him. He’s had kids before I think he knows that a stork doesn’t bring the baby. Holy hell you people make my eyes hurt

8. (finally) funny you should bring up narratives, you know considering you’re part of the group that thinks any affection towards anybody else that isn’t them is PR (thinking of the Joseph Fiennes hug fiasco) that lied about Georgia and Anna being abusive, that has tried time and time again and moved the goalpost, that fabricates evidence and tries to send death threats to people who speak out, and then lie about it, that your group is the one who can’t handle women working together and have to call everything PR. The same group that ignores the fact that Anna and Georgia are friends, to talk grave shit on them. Newsflash sweetheart, we aren’t the ones pushing the narrative here. You only want to see David and Michael happy as long as it aligns with your delusion. Have the day you deserve.

anyways, I think this is going to be my pinned post. Mostly because I want this to be embarrassing if you ever try to come back here and lie on Betty whites internet again, but also because I think this addresses so many tin hat talking points at once. Just because we love aziraphale and crowley doesn't mean we get the right to insert ourselves into their personal lives, you wouldn't want someone else praying for your relationship to fail.

[bumblesimagines]

i've been in love with you since the day we met. there. i said it. happy now?

Ginny Miller

i've been in love with you since the day we met. there. i said it. happy now?

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

Ginny hated the crushing weight of realizing her crush would never like her back. It was a feeling she'd grown accustomed to since the moment her little mind had been able to process things like attraction. She couldn't help her feelings, always getting a crush on some guy just because he smiled, was kind, or just showed her the smallest bit of attention. It was frustrating, and embarrassing, watching them choose girls who looked like her polar opposite: tall, blonde, skinny, married parents, stable household, suburban white picket fence lifestyle. The pretty popular girls who looked perfect at every given moment. They didn't have to worry about struggling to control their hair or having to deal with their mom disrupting their life by moving from place to place or not getting to see their dad as often as they wanted. 

For a split, brief moment, she thought Wellsbury would be different. Sure, the residents were painfully white and looked too upbeat to be real people, but she'd found a group of friends that made her feel at home and had managed to land her first boyfriend. Sweet, considerate, attentive Hunter Chen. The perfect guy. He came from a good family, shared mutual friends, and was everything anyone could ever need or want in a boyfriend.

Except... Hunter wasn't the guy who'd first caught her eye when she arrived at Wellsbury High School and made her stomach turn to mush.

That spot had been taken up by (Y/N) Sanchez, the longtime friend of the Baker twins and brother to Sophie, the so-called 'hottest girl in school'. Ginny had the pleasure of meeting him at lunch when he'd gone back and forth in playful banter with Max and made Ginny feel more than welcome at their table. Hunter had been there too and while she blushed when he brushed off Max's semi-insensitive rambling, the spark just hadn't been the same.

She thought she'd get over it when Hunter asked her out but with her nearly always over at Max's place and (Y/N) and Marcus practically joined at the hip, her crush only worsened. And it absolutely didn't help that (Y/N) enjoyed being affectionate with his friends. An arm over Jordan's shoulders, piggyback rides with Abby, letting Max use his lap as a seat, playful drunk flirting with Brodie and Marcus. It'd taken a couple weeks before it started with Ginny. Hugs from behind, casual arm around her shoulder, the playfights and wrestling over snatched phones or beer bottles.

And then, it happened. 

M.A.N.G had gathered together at Max's place for a get-together with just the girls to gossip, chit-chat, and relax without the rowdy boys interfering with their stupid jokes or teasing. Ginny had settled down comfortably on Max's bed with a laptop resting over her outstretched legs as she searched for a movie they could watch. Nora and Abby arrived looking extremely pleased and an excited Nora couldn't help but spill out the news. 

(Y/N) had officially asked Abby out after years of flirting. 

Ginny had been crushed, to say the least, and barely paid any attention to the movies chosen while she thought back on each interaction he and Abby shared throughout her time knowing them. She'd never seen their closeness as something with flirtatious undertones but she supposed (Y/N) always teased Abby more than the others. 

From then on, her mood had considerably soured and it was beginning to be noticeable. She couldn't help it. Jealousy bubbled up in her chest and spread throughout her body whenever she saw the two together. She became snappier and standoffish, especially whenever the relationship was brought up and cooed over. Even Hunter had begun lightly questioning her, asking if everything was alright at home with Georgia and Austin. 

Ginny groaned softly under her breath and slammed the locker closed. She almost flinched at the person whose face had been hidden by it but her surprise was quickly washed away by a fluttery feeling in her stomach. (Y/N) flashed his pearly whites at her and arched a brow as he glanced between her and the locker. 

"What'd the locker do to you?"

"Nothing," She answered, slipping her backpack strap over her shoulder and shrugging. "Just... woke up on the wrong side of the bed." 

"Think you need to put your bed against the wall then, Gin and tonic. You've been bitchy all week and it's making Hunter think he pissed you off." (Y/N) pushed himself off the lockers and slipped an arm around her shoulders, tugging her close to his side as they headed down the hall. Ginny tried not to think about how perfectly she fit against him, like the last piece in a puzzle slotting right in. "What's going on, my little cocktail? Did Hunter try giving you a private tap dance class?"

Ginny giggled and lifted her hand to stifle it, the uneasiness that'd settled in her muscles slipping away. "No, he didn't. It's not him. I just..." She trailed off, the nerves flooding her system making her feel as if her guts were being twisted violently. She cleared her throat. "It's nothing, I swear. Having a bad day is all."

"You're a shit liar, Gin." 

"I'm not lying-"

"Yeah, you are. You can tell me what's going on, you know. I won't tell anyone if you don't want me to, I promise." He assured her, giving her arm a reassuring squeeze. Ginny dug her teeth into the inside of her cheek and shook her head, brushing his arm off her shoulder and quickening her pace.

Before she could round the corner and try making a subtle break for it, a hand clamped around her forearm and dragged her into an empty classroom. (Y/N) planted himself in the doorway and crossed his arms, staring at her expectantly. Ginny pursed her lips and took a deep breath through her nose. Now or never.

"I've been in love with you since the day we met. I like Hunter but only as a good friend and- and I don't think you and Abby should date. She's a great friend but she can be mean and aloof and- and I hardly see you dating someone like her. I thought I could break up with Hunter and confess to you but then you got with Abby and I just- I... I can't handle it. I can't handle seeing you with her. I'm sorry, I can't..." She blurted out. "There. I said it. Happy now?"

[bl3eding-me]

part two of driving rain (warnings and tags on ao3)

(< part one) (part three >)

word count: 2k

not hope, just direction

Their plan had seemed simple enough.

Wrap things up in Cedartown. Hit LaGrange. Franklin, if needed. Then swing through Atlanta and loop back to Cedartown to get you. You were supposed to leave Georgia behind. All of you.

But they never showed.

It had been a year since the bonfire, since Daryl had warned you to take care of yourself. That night, you’d slept in the trailer surrounded by cigarette smoke and the low voices of men you barely knew. Fighting over card games and CDs in the player.

By the time you woke up, they were gone. All of them, except Cash. No warning. No note. Just the sound of gravel kicked up in their wake. You thought they’d stay longer. You thought they’d say goodbye. They usually did, at least. Daryl and Merle always swung by you to tell you something stupid and unimportant - that was how they said their goodbyes.

They didn’t call either. You told yourself they fucked up, got out early, or maybe got locked up somewhere. But that never sat right.

By October, Cash and Hugh were gone too.

A lot happened that year. You graduated. Picked up a job at a dingy dive bar you hated. Your father was home less and less. You kept the house going. Paid the bills you could. Fixed the porch light when it flickered.

There wasn’t time to mourn spoiled plans. You kept telling yourself you’d save up, get a car, maybe a bike, and leave on your own. But money disappeared fast, and hope disappeared faster. Every attempt to break free crumbled under another overdue notice.

Jackie stayed. She didn’t take it well. No job, no college, no plan nor direction. She just sat around your house when you weren’t at work, watching trash TV and complaining about whatever guy was chewing at her guts at the given moment.

The pack of Camels Daryl had sneaked into your bag a year ago sat untouched on the windowsill, just a reminder that living fast used to be somewhere around the corner. His flask was abandoned with you too. Maybe you hoped he would come back for it.

You couldn’t call or write to anyone. The only thing you could have done was call every prison in Georgia asking about the last name Dixon.

But you didn’t.

It was hot. Not just summer hot, Georgia hot. That particular kind of thick, stagnant, suffocating heat that made your hair stick to the sweat on your back and turned every breath into something you had to chew and swish before swallowing. Like a cheap bottle of liquor. The kind of heat that made everything feel like it could burst into flame at any moment, no matches nor gasoline needed.

You wiped down the same section of bar for the third time that night, ignoring the guy two stools down asking if you smiled for tips.

The speaker was still broken. Someone poured a beer into it last week, and no one bothered to fix it. Now the only sounds were the clatter of pool balls, glasses

clinking together or slamming down onto wooden tables, the neon hum from outside, and the occasional cackle from the back booth. The smell didn’t bother you anymore. Your hair reeked of it regardless.

Behind the bar, you counted bottles, scrubbed grime off the counters, and pretended the days, weeks and months on the calendar didn’t mean anything. One year since they left. Nearly a year since you were supposed to leave too. The calendar had a photo of a boat. You hadn’t gone swimming since you were a kid.

“Still on for tonight?” Jackie’s voice crackled through the phone as you walked home, cradling it between your shoulder and cheek as you dug around your bag for a piece of paper some regular gave you after you complained about troubles with the plumbing in your house.

“If we’re watchin’ One Tree Hill again, I’m callin’ it early,” you muttered, stepping over a crushed soda can in your driveway.

Jackie laughed, you could hear it from the other side of the door alongside the phone. “Don’t be a bitch. I brought snacks.”

You dropped your keys in the bowl and kicked your shoes off without untying them. The soles were nearly smooth from wear. The house was dark. Either the power went out while you were gone or it was finally cut. You didn’t care enough to check.

Jackie was already curled up on the couch, knees tucked tight to her chest like a child in trouble.

“You alright?” you asked, lighting a candle from the kitchen.

“Just tired,” she said, not looking up. “Feels like the days don’t end anymore.”

“Yeah,” you murmured, sinking onto the couch beside her. “I noticed.”

You didn’t talk about it anymore. Not with her. Not with anyone. But every time a motorcycle passed by on the road, you paused. And the duffel bag stayed packed under your bed, not because you thought you’d leave, but because you hoped someone might come looking.

Right before midnight, the power came back. The volume of the TV had not been adjusted before it went off, so it was loud enough to make you both jump.

You laughed. Jackie didn’t.

“Did you hear about that shit happenin’ in Atlanta?” she asked after a moment.

“What shit?” You asked, paying little attention to her question.

She pulled at the hem of her shorts. “Some guy on the news bit a paramedic. Cops shot him four times and he still got up.”

You blinked, flashing her a grin in disbelief. “You’re makin’ that up.”

“Swear to God. Channel 5. My mom called me freakin’ out.”

You scoffed. “Probably just some methhead. Maybe it was Merle. Who knows.”

“Yeah,” she said softly, laughing like it hurt. “Maybe.”

Neither of you spoke after that.

The town fell within a week.

People stopped pretending it wasn’t real. The jokes dried up. Then the bars closed. Then the pharmacies. Then the gas stations.

You boarded the windows shut. Barricaded the front door. Stopped answering it altogether. Rationed beans and saltines. Waited.

Nobody came back.

The last call you got before the lines were cut was from Jackie.

Her voice was shaking. “I think my mom’s sick. She… she bit me. I locked her in the bathroom. She’s screamin’, but she’s not even talkin’ anymore. Just… growling.”

You told her you were coming.

But you didn’t make it in time.

You found her on the porch, barefoot, her face bloated with bruises, blood dried on her throat. Her hands curled like claws. Her body twitched every few minutes, like her limbs were fighting to stay alive despite the ripped out airways.

Then her eyes opened.

And you didn’t hesitate.

Your dad’s truck was gone. Keys too. Maybe he made it. Maybe he didn’t. Not that you cared much.

But the hallway closet still had the gun case: three handguns, a rifle, five boxes of ammo. A half-smoked pack of cigarettes in the side pocket.

You took it all.

Packed the duffel bag for real this time. Not because you were hoping someone would find you, but because no one was coming.

And if you stayed, you’d end up like Jackie.

You knew for certain, someone like Jackie, whatever that meant anymore, would find you.

You didn’t cry. Not even when you stepped into the road and saw the homes burned out from the inside. Not when you passed the diner with blood smeared on the windows. Not when you saw a kid’s bike lying in the ditch, no one in sight.

You found the first car with the keys still in it, a beat-up Pontiac with a cross-shaped air freshener. And you drove.

It was almost funny how fast everything collapsed.

The first month was the worst. Though every single one after that didn't get much better.

You learned how silence sounded different when someone, but usually just something was watching you. Slept with your back against cold glass inside a scorching hot car. Ate crackers with somebody else's blood still drying on your hands. You stopped flinching by the third time.

Gas was scarce. Food, even more so. You stopped trusting cans without labels.

The stench, worse than the bar back home, became part of you. The worst part was realizing you could live with it.

A raccoon bit your wrist trying to steal your last bag of trail mix. You killed it with the butt of your gun and cried harder than you had when you had to do the same to Jackie.

Your knuckles never healed right. Crooked. Like Daryl’s.

You never noticed before.

Sometimes you talked to Jackie, just to fill the quiet. You didn’t expect answers.

Atlanta was gone. Overrun. The CDC was rubble, blown up before you could even get there. You headed west. No plan. Just instinct.

You met a man once.

He asked where the others were.

You told him there weren’t any.

He laughed like it was a punchline, then tried to take your coat.

You shot him in the gut and left him screaming in the road.

You gave up on the car after a while. Stayed close to the woods. Raided abandoned camps. Survived off whatever others failed to protect—food, water, ammo, clothes.

Then one day, you saw it.

A rusted board leaning over the railroad tracks. Red rust peeling down like blood.

TERMINUS

NO SANCTUARY

The words were slashed through. Clear as anything: this place wasn’t safe. Just another trap.

You stared until your knees gave out. Sat there, rifle across your lap, trying to remember how to breathe.

You were thinner now. Harder. But still alive.

You got up.

And kept walking.

The days blurred, each one hotter than the last. You walked just like the dead, dragging your feet, head down, just trying to make it one more mile. You were thirsty and in pain, but none of it mattered anymore.

That’s when you found the truck.

No bodies inside. Tank half-full. A miracle, almost.

You searched the passenger seat for water, found something else.

A crumpled sheet of paper.

You almost tossed it. But then you saw what was written.

“D.C.” Circled again and again in what looked like dried blood. Beside it, scribbled in shaky handwriting:

Safe Zone? Gov’t??

You turned it over. Sticky. Torn at the edges. But legible.

You looked back at the road.

Empty.

Hopeless.

This could be bullshit. Probably was. But it was something. Not hope. Just… direction.

You folded the paper and stuffed it into your waistband. Climbed into the driver’s seat. Adjusted it with a rusted lever and backed onto the road.

The truck smelled like sweat and dog hair and something rotting beneath the seat.

You didn’t care.

You just drove some more.

A few hours out, signs started to appear, but nothing like official ones. Leftover scraps. A scarf tangled in a tree branch. Water bottles crushed flat in the heat. A dead one face-down in the road, a sharpened stick speared clean through its skull.

Someone had been here. Not long ago.

You kept driving.

Later, a storm rolled in, loud and mean, hammering the roof so hard it shook the steering wheel. You collected rainwater in a few cans.

At dawn, you climbed onto the hood, rolled a cigarette, and lit it with a dying lighter.

The air steamed around you. Thick. Silent.

Then you heard rustling.

You froze.

Gripped the shotgun across your lap.

There was a voice, half-familiar, too familiar to trust. Maybe every voice seemed familiar nowadays.

“Hands where I can see ‘em!”

You turned, cigarette burning between your lips, unsure if it was real.

And there it was.

Not a face.

A crossbow.

Pointed straight at you.

[strawberrysugar71]

Hey! Pro-lifers! Read this please!

South Carolina, Texas, Georgia, Idaho, and Indiana. The states where the state-level proposals to make abortion punishable by the death penalty have been brought in.

South Carolina: The Prenatal Equal Protection Act has been introduced, aiming to define abortion as “willful prenatal homicide.” This reclassification could make obtaining an abortion punishable by the death penalty, though the bill includes limited exceptions, such as when a woman is compelled to have an abortion due to the threat of imminent death or great bodily injury. Notably, the bill does not provide exceptions for cases of rape or incest. While the bill has garnered support from some lawmakers, including 21 co-sponsors, state GOP leaders have indicated that it is unlikely to become law.

If this does unfortunately become law, this means that RAPE and INCEST victims, no matter their age, will not be allowed abortions. RAPE AND INCEST VICTIMS. So, not only does your state law want WOMEN that have been through a TRAUMATIC experience such as that to give birth to their abuser’s baby like it’s nothing, they also want LITTLE GIRLS to do the same. Do you see how fucked up that is? Or are you one of those “why the fuck should I care, it doesn’t affect me” people.

Texas: The Republican Party’s 2024 platform proposed redefining abortion as homicide, which could expose abortion providers to the death penalty. This proposal aligns with the views of the “abortion abolitionist” movement, which equates abortion with murder. However, this platform is not a legislative bill and does not specify penalties for individuals seeking abortions.

There is no legal protection for anybody here. None more those who have suffered a miscarriage, unfortunately have an ectopic pregnancy (ectopic pregnancy: is a type of pregnancy where a fertilized egg implants outside the uterus, most commonly in a fallopian tube. Ectopic pregnancies are not viable—they can’t result in a live birth—and prompt treatment is critical to protect the pregnant person’s life and future fertility.), those who are victims of rape, and those who are victims of incest. Don’t you think that’s also fucked up?

Idaho, Georgia, Indiana: Lawmakers in these 3 states, have introduced bills that could charge individuals seeking abortions with homicide. These proposals often use terms like “unborn child” or “preborn child” and aim to legally classify embryos and fetuses as potential homicide victims. While these bills are concerning, they are not yet law and do not uniformly propose the death penalty.

So, even if they don’t uniformly propose the death penalty, they could do other things such as torture, or 30+ years in prison. These three states don’t offer protection under any circumstances either.

Do you not feel bad for the women of the country? For the women your lawmakers aren’t protecting? 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 year old rape and incest victims being forced to carry their abuser’s babies to term and then give birth to them. If a woman gets pregnant before the age of 25, and after the age of 35, it’s classed as a ‘high-risk pregnancy’, meaning she has a higher chance of dying during childbirth. So not only was her life risked when she raped, (rape can kill by the way), it’s being risked again because the government is forcing her to have her abuser’s baby. Fucked up? 100%.

Do you not feel bad for the women suffering miscarriages, being denied healthcare whilst they’re bleeding out and grieving the loss of her baby? Fucked up? 100%.

Do you not feel bad for the women whose babies were conceived outside of the womb, not being allowed an abortion to save her own life? Fucked up? 100%.

And yes, “C-Sections and Adoption is an option”, but C-Sections is a surgeon cutting open 6 (sometimes 7) layers of skin just to pull a baby out of you, which is traumatic in itself, and it takes 1 hour to perform. Whereas, there are 3 types of abortion:

• Medication Abortion = 4-6 hours.

• Suction Aspiration = 5-10 minutes.

• Dilation and Evacuation = 1-2 days + 10-30 minutes.

Miscarriages and ectopic pregnancies need to be dealt with IMMEDIATELY, therefore, a suction aspiration is the quickest way out. But even then, that’s only used up until 14-16 weeks.

And for adoption, is still requires the baby to be given birth to, C-Section or not. Plus, a C-Section scars and a natural birth can tear. For rape victims, a natural birth will be EVEN WORSE for a rape victim, because she’ll have suffered vaginal trauma from having her vagina forced open when she was raped. 

I understand if you’re against abortion when a women doesn’t want a baby, and if she and her partner had consensual sex. I, personally, believe every woman should have the ability to say no to what happens to her body. If you’re against that in this case, okay. I doubt I’ll be able to change your mind on that. (However, if you think a woman shouldn’t have the right to say no to what happens to her body in any other case, you’re disgusting). But you have to realise that in cases of rape, incest, ectopic pregnancies, and miscarriages, it’s healthcare. You’re wrong if you don’t believe that.

Please, reblog this post to spread awareness. Riot in the streets, or shout it in the streets if you need to. Women and girls in America, you are so so so strong right now and I am SO proud of you all. Please don’t back down until everybody understands. Abortion is healthcare. I love you so much, and thank you for reading.

[doudouneverte]

2026

a/n: first fic from his own universe...

*not my GIF*

Pairing: Glódís Viggósdóttir x Fem!reader

Summary: the day after Glódís' contract extension

Type: Fluff

Warning: use of google translate for icelandic words

word count: 1840

note: bold = swedish

------

It was a warm day—a very good day. Yesterday was even a better day for Bayern fans when Glódís' contract extension was announced. And right now, the team was arriving at the campus for training with a little surprise.

"Oh, look at that!" Georgia's voice got the attention of everyone. When the team looked at where the English referred, they saw a huge bouquet.

The bouquet was a combination of blue and red flowers arranged so the red flowers in the centre wrote '2026' and the blues one around made the whole thing look like the Icelandic flag. And the more cute thing was that the 'little' gift was on Glódís' cubby, making her blush intensely.

"Wow, that's a big one." Lea chuckled. "How did they even get it there? I would be scared to break it." There was a little silence in the room while the girls admired it until they heard the click of a snap shot.Everyone looked where the sound came from to see a very proud Islanlic captain. 

"You have to take a picture with it." Linda proposed, and everyone immediately agreed. The captain didn't wait a second until she took it and posed with the wave of her teammates' phones.

The red-headed woman analysed the bouquet until she noticed a little card with it.

"Well, if I'm guaranteed to get something like that for an extension, give me a pen right now." Jovan said, making the whole team laugh.

During the whole training, the captain didn't seem to be able to suppress her smile, which made all the team tease her, but she couldn't care less. It was like that until Magda came to ask her something about it. Pernille was watching them a little curious, but from her girlfriend's behaviour, she could say that Magda was shy to tell what she was saying to her captain.

It was the last day before their next match, so the Danish brusehd it off and decided to focus on her training, but she made a mental note to ask about that later. At the end of the training, the girls decided to spend some time together, which everyone agreed with except the Swedish defender, who informed them that she had something important to do.

It was in the middle of the afternoon, and you were in the shop, waiting for any potential customers while you were on your phone. On Instagram, more precisely. You were watching some random posts until someone sent you a direct message.

You smiled at your phone, getting enough time to reply with a quick 'you're welcome' until someone entered the shop.

(has sent you a picture)

Glódís: Thank you 💙❤

It was a very fascinated and a little confused Magda who was facing you, getting you immediately confused and fascinated as well.

"Hi, how can I help you?" You asked, making the defender more confused.

"You speak Swedish?" She asked.

"Yeah, I'm from Malmo, and honestly, it's not every day that I get the visit of a Swedish superstar."

"I'm not a superstar."

"You're the captain of the national team, so for me, you're a superstar." You asserted your point, making her finally accept it. "So, how can I help you?"

"Uh, yeah. I want to buy something for my girlfriend, and a teamma- a friend recommended this place to me, so I came to check if you had something that could… I don't know; that can please my girlfriend."

It took you a few seconds to process everything and think about it. "Okay, you're in the right place for that. Do you have any idea, or can we think about it together?"

"Actually, yeah, just a moment…" She pulled out her phone and opened Instagram. "Something like that. But of course not as big as it."

You giggled a little looking at the picture of your wife smiling widely with your gift in her hands.

"Yeah, I think I can do something like that; excuse me a moment." You quit the counter to wander in the shop, picking some flowers, and then came back. "We can make it look like the Danish flag, or we can try arranging them to look like a white heart on a red background."

"The heart one!" Magda replied immediately, making you chuckle. "Sorry," she mumbled, making you even more chuckled.

"Don't worry, it's nothing. I'm used to this type of reaction with my wife."

"Oh, you're married?"

"Yess. 4 years now."

"Wow."

"Yeah, wow. But I can't be more happy with her; she's always so sweet with me. I mean, she made me leave Sweden, so that's the least she can do."

While you were finishing your 'piece of art', as your wife likes to call all your creations, you and Magda used that time to know more about each other. And after that, you decided to give it to her for free with a promise to let her pay for her next purchase.

Two hours later, you were cleaning up after your last client when you were interrupted by someone entering the shop. You looked at the entry to see your big bouquet covering the Icelandic captain's face.

"Hi, ástin mín (my love)." She greeted you happily.

"Why don't you let it at home, baby?" You giggled when you saw her trying to give you a hug without crushing the flowers.

"I know I should, but after the training, the girls wanted to spend some time together, and as a captain, I couldn't refuse that. And after that, I came here." She said proudly.

You gave her a kiss and took the flowers from her hands, making her pout a little.

"Hey, it's mine," she complained, making you laugh.

"I know, but I'll just put them in the water so you don't have to carry them all the time," you reassured her. When you finally dispose of the flowers in a pretty vase (chosen by Glódís), you finally let the defender rest in your arms on a couch behind the counter.

It was a habit of her to come here after the training just to spend some time with you, even if you assured her that she would eventually see you after you closed the shop.

"How many hours have we left before you close?" She asked.

"Two hours," you replied, and your wife hummed in reply, letting you know that she would probably fall asleep during this time.

You both stayed like that for almost fifteen minutes until the front opened again. You were trying to get out of Glódís' arms before you saw two familiar figures looking at you from the other side of the counter.

"Oh, look at that; she's so cute." Karólína said.

"She looks like an orange cat." Emilie added making you and the younger Icelandic player laugh. "What, isn't she?"

"She definitely looks like a cat." You agreed with her after a quick look at your wife. "But what are you doing here?"

"We have to play against Bayern tomorrow, so here we are. We just finished the training, and we have a little free time, so we came to check on you." The Norwegian player explained. You nodded, but you heard a snap shot. You turned your head towards Karólína with a confused look.

"Sorry, it's so cute. I had to." She tried to defend herself, but you didn't have a lot of time to think about it because the older Icelandic player started to wake up next to you.

The first thing she immediately noticed when she woke up was the two players who joined you. She was a little confused, but decided to brush it off when you didn't seem as surprised as her.

The three players stayed there until you closed the shop, helping with the late customers and cleaning before closing. After you dropped them off at their hotel, you drove back to your home.

"Finally alone!" Glódís exclaimed while you closed the door.

"Well, technically, we were alone for a moment, but Mrs. decided to take a nap." You said with a smirk.

"Hey, I was tired."

"I know. I'm just messing with you." You kissed her gently and said, "I missed you."

"I missed you too."

You led her to the couch, where you made out until you had to use the bathroom. While you were gone, you received a text from Karo, which intrigued Glódís. The defender unlocked your phone.

It was not the first time that she did that; you both trusted each other, and you both knew that neither of you would cheat or do any harm to the other.

She saw what her national teammates sent you and let out a little chuckle at the message.

"When did she even take that picture?" she asked no one with a smile on her face.

(picture)

Karo: the little orange fur of Iceland😺🇮🇸

When you were back on the couch, Glódís gave you your phone with a little smile. You raised your eyebrow before turning on your phone to discover your new lock screen.

"To her defence, you really look like an orange cat when you sleep like that."

"I'm. not. a cat." She pointed every word with light slaps with a cushion.

"Too bad, I really love cats." You tried to defend your point. The captain stopped her action and seemed to think about it.

"Well, you love me more than any cat." She reminded you.

"Yeah, that's also true." You tackled her on the couch and started to tickle her. Her laughs were filling the room before you started to shush her with kisses. You stopped only a short time after she finally caught her breath.

"You know what? I think you should come with me and the team for our international game this time."

You took some time to think about it, because even if you really wanted to be there to support her, you had your own duties, and she was aware of that.

"I don't know, älskling."

"Please. The girls miss you, and don't worry, I'll do anything to not let you get bored of them or anything."

"Oh, don't worry, I love them, and I could never get bored of them, but I have the shop and…"

"You can close for a week." She was now making the puppy eyes. "And I promise I'll help you when we get back."

"Really help me, or you'll just fall asleep like usual?" you mocked, making her roll her eyes playfully.

"No, I'm serious this time." She took your hands in hers and put them under her chin, forcing you to focus on her. The captain stared at you like that, waiting for a response until you finally let her win this time.

"Okay," you sighed while Glódís jumped from her spot to hug you. "But don't forget to make up for that."

"I'll not, I promise." She concluded the deal with a passionate kiss. "I love you, Kærasta (darling)."

"And I love you too, Glo."