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inseobts · 21 hours ago

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A Swordsman’s Resolve

zoro x reader

when you awaken a new power that lets you take others' pain as your own, you begin secretly protecting the strawhat crew—until zoro finds out and decide to train you to grow stronger without relying on your gift.

words count: 3.1k

warning: reader is like a voodoo doll so self harm, blood and injuries are mentioned for the fights

tags: injuries, fluff, a bit angst maybe, training with zoro

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

You ate a Devil Fruit when you were a kid, and got a strange ability that let you use your own pain as a weapon.

If you stabbed yourself, your enemy would feel the wound instead. A direct exchange. Pain for pain.

It wasn’t perfect. The more damage you took, the weaker you got. Sure, you healed faster than the one you hurt, but it still hurt like hell.

And if you pushed too hard you wouldn’t heal as fast as your usual.

Still, it was useful. You used it to protect the crew, especially during battle. If someone was about to get hit, you’d cut yourself transferring the damage to the enemy instead to stop them.

Painful? Yes. Worth it? Always.

But then, something changed.

It happened a few weeks ago.

The battle had been rough, but the crew had won. You stood on the Sunny’s deck, covered in sweat and blood, catching your breath.

Across from you, Luffy was clutching his side waiting for Chopper to finish patch someone else.

“Oi, you okay?” you asked, stepping closer.

Luffy grinned, but it was weaker than usual “Yeah! Just a little cut.”

A little cut was Luffy speak for ‘I’m actually bleeding a lot, but don’t worry about it.’

You frowned, crouching beside him. His shirt was torn, revealing a deep gash along his ribs. It wasn’t fatal, but it didn’t look good either.

Without thinking, you pressed your fingers over the wound and then a sharp, searing pain shot through your own ribs.

Your breath caught as you felt the wound disappear from Luffy’s body… and appear on yours.

Luffy blinked, confused.

“Huh? It stopped hurting!” He poked his side, then looked at you “…Wait, why do you look like you’re in pain now?”

You gritted your teeth, trying not to hiss “No reason.”

Luffy tilted his head “Did you just—”

“Shut up,” you muttered, standing up quickly “I said it’s nothing.”

Luffy’s eyes narrowed “Did you just steal my injury?”

You froze “…No.”

“Yes, you did!” His expression lit up like a kid discovering a new game “That’s so cool! Can you do it again?”

You groaned “It’s not cool, Luffy.”

But he was already poking at his arm “What if I get a cut here—can you take it?”

“Luffy.”

“What if I break a bone?”

“LUFFY.”

He pouted “What? It’s a fair question!”

You sighed, rubbing your temples “Look. I didn’t even know I could do this until now. It just… happened.”

Luffy blinked, processing.

Then, to your absolute horror, he grinned “That means you can heal everyone! You heal faster so it must be already gone..”

Your stomach dropped “No. It actually hurts. A lot more than my usual power.” You crossed your arms “Seems like it takes longer for me to heal. It’s not some magical fix.”

Luffy hummed “Mh then I'd say you don't use that anymore... but you’d still do it, right? I know you”

You hesitated.

Of course, you would. If it meant protecting the crew.

But before you could answer, Sanji’s voice rang out from the kitchen “Dinner’s ready!”

Luffy immediately forgot everything and ran inside, laughing.

You exhaled. Crisis averted.

For now.

Because if Luffy knew then it was only a matter of time before someone else found out.

You keep your secret safe for weeks! Apparently Luffy forgot...

At first, it’s easy. You start small, taking tiny injuries from the crew when no one’s looking. A scraped knee here, a bruised knuckle there. Nothing big.

No one notices.

But then the fights get tougher.

The New World isn’t kind. Enemies get stronger, battles last longer. The crew starts walking away from fights with barely any wounds. But you start feeling it.

The constant ache in your bones, the sharp sting of deep cuts that aren’t healing fast enough. But you push through it, hide it well.

Or at least, you think you do.

Until Zoro catches you.

It happens after a particularly brutal fight.

The crew had just finished raiding a marine base. Nothing too crazy, but the enemies had been tough.

You stand on the deck of the Sunny, bandaging your arm. Another wound you had taken from Usopp. He had been hit bad, you hadn’t even thought before reaching for him, absorbing the injury.

Now, you regret it. This one hurts.

“You’re doing it again.”

You freeze.

Zoro’s voice is sharp, too sharp. When you turn, he’s standing near the railing, arms crossed, eyes locked onto you.

You force a smile “Doing what?”

His expression darkens “Don’t play dumb.”

Your stomach twists.

“Taking our damn injuries” he says flatly.

Your grip tightens on the bandages “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Zoro steps closer “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not—”

Before you can finish, he moves. Too fast.

One second, he’s in front of you. The next, he’s grabbing your wrist forcing your hand away from your bandages.

Your breath catches.

His eyes drop to your arm.

To the wound that wasn’t there before the fight ended.

His jaw tightens “So that’s how we’ve been walking away without a scratch.”

You yank your hand back “It’s not a big deal.”

“The hell it isn’t!” His voice is low, but angry “You’re hurting yourself for us.”

You glare “I’ve always done that.”

“Not like this.”

“It’s the same thing!” You step closer, frustration bubbling up “I take pain to protect the crew, that’s what I’ve always done!”

Zoro’s expression hardens “You’re not protecting us. You’re making yourself weaker.”

You scoff “Oh, so I’m the weak one now?”

“Yes.”

The answer is immediate.

Your breath catches.

Zoro exhales, rubbing a hand down his face. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter.

“You rely on this power too much.” He shakes his head “What happens when you take too much? When your body can’t keep up?”

You look away.

He notices.

His voice drops lower “You don’t know, do you?”

You swallow hard.

Zoro sighs. When he speaks again, there’s no anger. Just frustration.

“You can’t keep fighting like this.” His gaze locks onto yours “Train with me.”

You blink “…What?”

“Train with me,” he repeats “You want to protect the crew? Then get strong yourself. Not through your Devil Fruit. You.”

You hesitate.

This is Zoro. The most stubborn, relentless, brutal fighter on the crew.

But deep down, you know he’s right.

You exhale “…Fine.”

A smirk tugs at his lips “You’re gonna regret that.”

Training with Zoro is hell.

You expect it to be hard, Zoro is one of the strongest swordsmen, after all. But you don’t expect him to be this relentless.

“You call that a punch?” he scoffs, blocking your attack with one arm “I’ve seen Chopper hit harder.”

You grit your teeth “I don’t need to be strong like you. I have my Devil Fruit.”

Zoro’s expression darkens “That’s the problem.”

Before you can react, he moves, sweeping your legs out from under you. You hit the ground hard.

Pain explodes through your body, but you refuse to transfer it away.

Zoro stands over you, arms crossed “If you lost your powers tomorrow, could you still protect the crew?”

You don’t answer because you don’t know, and Zoro sees it.

He sighs, holding out a hand “Get up.”

You glare at him, but take his hand anyway. He pulls you to your feet with zero effort.

“We’re doing that again” he says.

You groan “You just knocked me on my ass.”

“Then stop letting me.”

Over the next few weeks, something shifts.

Training with Zoro is brutal, but you keep up. You stop relying on your Devil Fruit in fights. You block, dodge, counter without using your power as a crutch.

And Zoro watches you closely.

At first, you think it’s just him being a tough mentor. But it’s not just that.

Because sometimes, when you push yourself too far, his frustration turns to something like worry.

You don’t question it. Not until the day everything changes.

The crew is ambushed on an island.

It’s not the worst fight you’ve had, but it’s bad enough. The enemy captain is strong, and before you know it Zoro takes a hit.

A deep slash across his chest. Blood spills onto the ground.

Your body moves before your brain does. You reach for him.

Pain floods your body as the wound transfers to you. Your knees buckle, breath hitching but Zoro catches you immediately.

“The hell do you think you’re doing?” he snaps, eyes blazing.

You grit your teeth “Saving your life, dumbass.”

“I didn’t ask you to!”

“You didn’t have to!”

Zoro scowls. He grips your shoulders, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“You can’t just take pain like it’s nothing,” he growls “You think it doesn’t matter?”

You glare back “It doesn’t.”

“It does.”

His voice is low. Firm.

Your chest tightens “You wouldn’t get it.”

His grip tightens “I do get it.”

You freeze.

Because there’s something in his eyes, something familiar... and then, you remember.

You were awake when the Rumble Ball incident happened. The damage Luffy took at Thriller Bark. The moment Zoro stood covered in blood, refusing to say what happened.

And suddenly, it all makes sense.

Your breath catches “You took Luffy’s pain back then.”

Zoro’s jaw clenches.

You stare at him and his gaze softens. Just for a second.

Then he looks away “It doesn’t matter.”

But it does. Because now, you understand you and Zoro are the same.

You both take pain so the crew doesn’t have to.

But Zoro never let it break him.

And maybe that’s why he’s so angry now. Because he sees you going down the same path. And he doesn’t want that for you.

You swallow hard “…Zoro.”

His eyes flicker back to you.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

Then his voice is quieter “Don’t do that again.”

Your fingers curl into fists “I can’t promise that.”

Zoro exhales sharply “Then I’ll just have to stop you again.”

Your heart pounds.

Because the way he says it, it’s not just a threat. It’s a promise.

You and Zoro don’t talk about what happened.

Not at first.

The crew is too busy celebrating the win. Luffy’s laughing, Usopp’s boasting about some made-up feat, and Sanji’s grilling enough food to feed an army.

But Zoro stays quiet.

And you pretend your body isn’t aching from taking his wound. You pretend Zoro’s eyes aren’t constantly on you.

But you feel the way he watches you. The way his jaw tightens every time you wince.

And then, late that night, when the crew is asleep, he finally snaps.

You’re on the deck, staring at the sea, when you hear heavy footsteps.

Zoro stops beside you, arms crossed.

You sigh “Here to scold me again?”

“Tch.” He leans against the railing “Don’t act like you didn’t deserve it.”

You roll your eyes “I saved your life.”

“I wasn’t dying.”

“You were bleeding everywhere.”

Zoro gives you a pointed look “So were you.”

You open your mouth, then close it. Because he’s right.

You shift uncomfortably “I can handle it.”

Zoro scoffs “That’s what I said back then.”

You glance at him “What?”

His gaze darkens “It almost got myself killed.”

You’re confused but you don’t need the details to understand. Silence stretches between you.

Zoro sighs, rubbing his neck “I know why you do it. But you’re an idiot if you think you can keep this up forever.”

Your fingers tighten on the railing “…So what do I do? Stand there watching everyone getting hurt when I know I can do something about it?”

Zoro exhales sharply “Just let me help you.”

Your breath catches.

Because it’s not a demand. Not a command. It’s an offer.

You swallow hard “I don’t need—”

“Don’t start.”

You blink.

Zoro turns to you fully, expression serious “You need to stop acting like you’re alone in this.”

Your chest tightens.

Zoro doesn’t do speeches. He doesn’t waste words.

So if he’s saying this…

He means it.

“…Okay.” you murmur.

Zoro raises an eyebrow “Okay?”

You roll your eyes “Yeah, okay. I’ll let you help me. Happy?”

He smirks “Ecstatic.”

You laugh, shaking your head “Asshole.”

His smirk widens “You love it.”

Your heart stumbles.

Because he says it too casually. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s true.

You look away “Shut up.”

Zoro just chuckles. And somehow the weight on your shoulders feels lighter.

Training with Zoro doesn’t get easier.

If anything, it gets harder.

Every day, he pushes you past your limits, forcing you to fight without using your Devil Fruit, making you stronger on your own. You hate him for it, but you also hate that it works.

Your body stops aching as much. Your reactions get faster. Your movements sharper.

And Zoro never stops watching you. But you ignore that.

Until the day everything falls apart.

The training session is brutal.

Zoro blocks every attack with zero effort. He moves too fast, dodging your punches like they’re nothing.

You’re tired. Frustrated.

So when he steps in close, you react on instinct.

You try to sweep his legs, but he sidesteps, and suddenly, you’re off balance and before you can stop it, you crash into him.

Zoro grunts as you both hit the ground, hard.

And just then you realize where you landed.

Your body is on top of his. Your hands are on his chest. His very solid, very warm chest.

And Zoro is just staring at you.

His breath is warm against your skin. His hands rest lightly on your waist, like he’s not sure whether to hold you or let go.

Your heart pounds.

Neither of you move.

Neither of you speak.

And then, without thinking, you kiss him.

It’s quick. A fleeting brush of lips. But it’s enough. Because for a split second, Zoro freezes. His grip on your waist tightens as his breath catches. And that’s when it hits you.

What the hell did I just do?!

Panic floods your chest.

You pull away. Scramble to your feet.

Zoro sits up instantly, eyes wide “Wait!”

But you don’t. You turn and run.

Because holy shit, you just kissed Zoro and you don’t know if he wanted you to.

You avoid him after that.

It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid.

But every time you see him, you hear his sharp inhale. Feel his hands tightening on your waist. See the shock in his eyes.

And you can’t face that.

So you just... don’t.

You dodge his training sessions. You sit as far from him as possible during meals. When he walks into a room, you walk out.

The crew notices.

Luffy is confused. Nami is amused. Usopp keeps giving you looks.

And Zoro is pissed, because he might be shy, but he isn’t dumb. And you’re not subtle.

So after three days of this he corners you. And you realize, too late that you’re screwed.

You’re about to slip away again when you feel that familiar, heavy stare.

You freeze.

And before you can react a strong hand grips your wrist. You spin around.

Zoro stands there, arms crossed, brow furrowed. His eyes lock onto yours with an intensity that makes your stomach flip.

“You,” he says, voice low, “are avoiding me.”

You swallow “No, I’m not.”

Zoro raises an eyebrow.

You try again “I’m just... busy.”

His jaw clenches “Bullshit.”

You flinch because Zoro never calls you out like this.

You pull your wrist free, looking away “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Zoro exhales sharply and then “Is it because of the kiss?”

Your stomach drops.

Your entire body tenses.

You should have known he’d bring it up.

But hearing him say it out loud... you can’t breathe.

“I—” Your voice catches “I didn’t mean to—”

Zoro steps closer “Didn’t mean to what?”

You step back “Forget it.”

“No.” His eyes darken “I won’t.”

You clench your fists “Just drop it, Zoro.”

His hand catches your chin. Gently.

Your breath hitches.

“I’m not dropping shit,” he murmurs “You kissed me. Then you ran. Now you won’t even look at me.”

You force yourself to meet his gaze.

And fuck, he looks serious.

Your heart pounds.

“I thought…” You swallow hard “I thought you didn’t want me to.”

Zoro stares.

Then he curses under his breath, and before you can react his hand cups your face and he kisses you.

Not soft. Not hesitant.

But actually firm and certain. Like he’s making a point.

Like he’s saying “You’re an idiot if you think I didn’t want this.”

Your brain short-circuits.

Your hands fist in his shirt. You kiss him back desperate, dizzy.

His arms lock around you, because now that he has you he’s not letting go.

Zoro’s kiss is rough, unyielding.

Like he’s making up for lost time. Like he’s claiming something he should’ve had all along.

You barely have time to breathe.

His hand tightens at the nape of your neck, tilting your head just right, deepening the kiss until your knees threaten to give out.

You clutch at his shirt, gripping the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you standing, and maybe it is.

When you finally pull away, gasping, your head feels light, hazy.

Zoro doesn’t let go.

His forehead presses against yours. His breathing is uneven and when he speaks his voice is low, rough “Still think I didn’t want it?”

You shudder.

Your fingers tighten on his chest.

“…No.”

His lips curve “Good.”

The crew finds out immediately. Not because you tell them, but because, apparently, you’re both terrible at hiding it.

The next morning, you walk into the kitchen and the entire crew is staring at you.

You freeze.

“…What?”

Sanji smirks, leaning against the counter “So…you and the mosshead, huh?”

Your stomach drops.

Nami hums, sipping her coffee “Took you long enough.”

Usopp grins “You guys weren’t exactly subtle.”

Your face burns “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Luffy just tilts his head “Zoro was smiling this morning.”

You blink “So?”

Luffy grins “Zoro never smiles like that.”

Your mouth opens and then you hear the sound of approaching footsteps.

You turn and there he is.

Zoro strides in, yawning. He looks relaxed, more than usual, like he actually slept well for once.

Then his gaze lands on you.

And without hesitation he reaches out, grabs your wrist, and pulls you into his side casually, like it’s natural, like he’s done it a million times.

And when he notices the crew watching he just raises an eyebrow “…What?”

Silence.

Then Sanji groans “Oh, great. Now he’s even more unbearable.”

Nami just smirks “About damn time.”

Usopp whispers something about losing a bet.

And Luffy just laughs “Shishishi! You two are weird.”

Zoro just grunts “Tch. Whatever.”

But you see the way his fingers linger against your skin. The way his shoulders relax just slightly when you don’t pull away.

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purplereina11 · 2 days ago

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In a match where the scoreboard tells only half the story, a fierce on-pitch rivalry between you and football royalty, Alexia Putellas, evolves into something electric — something unspoken, but deeply felt. Between the lines two players lock eyes, trade touches, and blur the line between competition and connection. What begins as a game becomes a gravity neither can resist.

Part 4: One night in Barcelona part 1 Other Parts

Word Count: 10K

This ran longer than I originally thought, so Y/N's Barcelona trip will be spilt into 2 parts

You get home and the flat feels too quiet.

Teddy flops on the couch like he’s mourning, and you stand there for a second, jacket half-off, keys still dangling from your fingers, just letting the silence settle.

You make coffee. Scroll half-heartedly through the news. Pretend you’re not checking your phone every three minutes.

She said she’d text.

You trust her.

Still, you check again.

You check your phone too soon. Too often.

Until finally as you park up at the training centre.

Alexia: Landed. Missing Teddy already. You only a little bit.

You laugh under your breath, sharp and surprised, leaning against the car.

You tap your thumb against the screen, smile tugging at your mouth.

You: Teddy’s devastated. Kept looking at the door all morning like you're about to walk back in.

You pause. Then add, softer,

You: I might of been doing the same.

The typing bubble pops up immediately.

Alexia: I've been thinking.

Your stomach flips. Another message follows, almost before you can blink,

Alexia: Come to Barcelona.

You stare at the words.

Simple. Sure. Not a question. An invitation.

You slowly pluck your bag from the boot, heartbeat thudding against your ribs like it’s trying to reach her before you can.

You type slowly, savouring it,

You: You serious?

Alexia: I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t. Come see my world. Stay at my place.

You bite your lip, grinning now, stupid, full, real.

You: Say when.

Her reply comes seconds later:

Alexia: Whenever you’re free.

You glance at Georgia, strutting across the carpark to meet you at the exact spot at the exact time she always did. "Hey gorgeous" she grins

You smile. Then you pull up your calendar. Because it’s not just a maybe.

It’s Barcelona. It’s her. You were ignoring the nerves. You were going.

Georgia bumps your shoulder lightly with hers. “So,” she says, voice low enough that it gets lost under the general buzz around you as you walk in the facility. “How were your days off?”

You glance at her. Her expression is innocent. Too innocent.

You squint, breathing out a soft laugh through your nose. “They were good,” you say, keeping it vague, dropping your bag in your cubicle before spinning and heading right back out with her for breakfast.

Georgia hums. Nods. Like she’s accepting the answer. But you’re not an idiot. You know exactly what she’s really asking.

Not how was your rest? Not did you get your legs back under you? But how was it being with her?

You hold a mug toward her gently. She takes it without thinking. It was mindless routine with you both now.

Then she leans in just a little, eyebrow raised.

“Really good?” she murmurs, just for you. You smirk, looking away, pretending to focus on your cup of tea.

“Mind your business, Stanway.”

She chuckles, returning the ball with a light pass. “You’re smiling like a lunatic. Not very subtle.”

You shrug. Try to wipe the grin off your face. You fail. Miserably.

Georgia goes off to look what hot food was on offer, tossing a wink over her shoulder.

You watch her go, still smiling despite yourself, feet rooted in the soft spot, minds already miles away.

Back to rooftop nights and sleepy breakfasts. Back to Uno wars and stolen glances. Back to her.

⚽️

The planning starts that night after she lands back in Barcelona.

You’re lying in bed, Teddy snoring beside you, scrolling mindlessly when your phone buzzes.

Alexia When’s your next free weekend?

You sit up a little straighter immediately.

You: I'll check. Hang on. Trying to look important.

You flick through your calendar — training, matches, travel days. It’s tighter than you’d like. But there's a small window coming up.

You: Have two days off next month. Saturday to Sunday. Could maybe get the Friday night flight too if I’m sneaky and cancel something, but not promising that.

A pause.

Alexia: I have a home game that Saturday. Would you want to... come to the game?

You blink. Heart stuttering a little. She doesn’t say 'watch me play' or 'sit in the stands like a fan.'

She says come to the game. Come be there.

You type slower this time,

You: I’d love to.

Another pause.

Alexia: I’ll get you tickets. And after... we can actually see Barcelona properly on the Sunday when we have more time. Not just the stadium.

You grin.

You: Deal. Tourist Alexia can finally pay me back for Munich.

She sends back an eye-roll emoji.

Alexia: Only if you survive the Estadi.

You laugh, alone in your flat, staring at your screen like it's a map to something bigger than flights and fixtures.

You: I’ll book flights tomorrow.

A few minutes later,

Alexia: I’m excited.

You stare at that word. Read it again. Excited. You lie back against the pillows, heart hammering quietly. It’s happening. You’re going to her. You’re looking at your calendar and counting down the days.

Alexia: When are you coming? I'll put it on my calendar so I don't get booked for anything

The typing bubble appears immediately.

Alexia: Careful. I might not let you leave.

You bite your lip, feeling that same fizzy thrill in your chest you haven’t quite gotten used to — don’t really want to.

You: Dangerous game you're playing, Putellas.

Alexia: I like my chances.

You flip onto your back, staring at the ceiling, trying to fight the stupid grin taking over your face. You start mentally flipping through your calendar, through your training commitments, through flights that might work for that weekend to maximise your hours.

You smile, already typing back the dates you were free

Alexia: One night? That’s it?

You laugh softly into the dark.

You: I have a job, you know.

Alexia: Unacceptable.

You roll your eyes fondly, typing,

You: Tell you what. If you win the match, I’ll stay longer next time.

Her reply comes fast:

Alexia: I better win, then.

You tuck the phone against your chest for a second, feeling everything buzz under your skin, excitement, nerves, all tangled together. You’ve traveled for football your whole life.

But this feels different. Personal. Heavy in the best way.

Your phone buzzes again.

Alexia: Also... bring some Uno cards.

You frown, confused, texting back:

You: Really?? You want to play again?

Alexia: Maybe.

You laugh out loud this time, scaring Teddy half awake.

You: Big words for someone who almost cried over a +4.

You can practically feel her scowl through the screen.

Alexia: Shut up and book your ticket.

You type,

You: On it.

You pause. Then, without thinking too hard, you add,

You: Can’t wait to see you.

No emoji. No joke. Just real. Her reply doesn’t come immediately this time. You wait — heart thudding.

Then:

Alexia: Me neither.

Short. Simple. You turn the screen off, smiling in the dark, already dreaming of Barcelona.

⚽️

You barely remember how to pack when it wasn't to go play football.

Teddy curls up beside you, a warm, comforting weight, but your mind spins — running through every second of the past few days, every laugh, every soft look across Uno cards, every 'can't wait' tucked into your chest like a secret.

Your flight’s early. You don’t mind.

You breeze through security, headphones on, hoodie up, trying to stay calm. But inside, you’re buzzing.

Barcelona.

Her.

You board the plane, squeeze into your seat, and pull your cap low. Pretend to read. Pretend not to check your phone even after you’ve put it on airplane mode.

The whole flight feels longer than it should, even though it's barely two hours.

You stare out the window as the coast of Spain comes into view — glittering like a dream.

Your fingers tap against your thigh the whole descent.

When you finally step off the plane and into the terminal, it's like your lungs remember how to breathe differently — faster. Sharper.

You follow the crowd through the long hallways, baggage signs flashing above your head, the bright hum of early morning travelers all around you.

Your bag’s slung over your shoulder when you turn the last corner toward Arrivals.

And you see her. Alexia.

Leaning casually against a pillar, sunglasses pushed up into her hair, hoodie sleeves shoved up over her forearms. Backpack slung over one shoulder like she’s just another student waiting for a friend.

Her eyes are locked on you. Like she didn’t even bother pretending to be casual. Like she’s been standing there, waiting, watching the whole time.

Your stomach flips. You slow your steps without meaning to.

Alexia pushes off the pillar, straightening, a half-smile pulling at her mouth, small, real, slightly smug.

Like she knew this moment would feel like this. You cross the space between you faster than you mean to. And when you reach her, close enough to see the way her lashes catch the light, she grins properly.

“You made it,” she says, voice soft.

You roll your eyes, breathless. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m impressed,” she says, stepping forward just a little closer. “You didn’t get lost.”

“Yet,” you tease, voice cracking slightly under the weight of it all.

She smiles wider. And then, casually, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, she reaches out and plucks at the hem of your hoodie.

Tugging you one step closer. You bump her shoulder with yours, just lightly. And she laughs.

Low. Warm. Full-body. You breathe it in like sunlight.

“Come on,” she says, brushing her fingers lightly over your wrist a fleeting, grounding touch. “Let’s get out of here.”

And you do. Because Barcelona is waiting.

The air outside the terminal is warm already, not heavy, but alive, that salt-crisped breeze that says you’re close to the sea, close to something good.

Alexia leads you to her car, tossing your bag casually into the boot like it’s nothing, like this, you and her is normal now. You slide into the passenger seat.

She slides behind the wheel, shoving her sunglasses back down over her eyes, one hand relaxed on the wheel, the other tapping the roof once as she starts the engine.

The city opens around you as she pulls away from the airport highways slipping into narrower streets, buildings pressing in with bright shutters and sun-bleached balconies.

You crack the window. The breeze rushes in carrying roasted coffee and blooming citrus and the deep, endless salt of the Mediterranean.

Alexia glances at you sideways. “You good?” she asks, casual, but her voice tilts at the end a little tentative, a little careful.

You smile. “Better than good.”

That earns you the soft curve of her mouth — the one you’ve already decided is your favourite. She doesn’t rush the drive. Doesn’t throw you into the tourist chaos.

Instead, she peels off onto quieter streets past open squares where kids kick footballs barefoot, past cafés spilling sleepy locals onto sidewalks, past corners where the real Barcelona hums, slower and deeper than any guidebook can touch.

You watch it all, drinking it in, feeling something settle under your ribs.

And you watch her. The way she belongs to this place, not loudly. Not like someone claiming it. Just woven into it. She points casually out the window at one point, a tiny café with peeling turquoise paint and a crooked sign.

“That’s where we’re going,” she says. “Best coffee. No tourists.”

You raise an eyebrow. “How very authentic of you.”

She smirks, taking a turn too fast just to make you grab the door handle. “Hold on, turista.”

You laugh — full and easy — and she laughs too, a little softer, a little closer to the surface now.

When she pulls up outside the café, it’s quiet tucked between two apartment buildings, a few chairs scattered under an awning, a dog sleeping under one of the tables.

Alexia tosses her keys into her pocket and slides her sunglasses up into her hair.

“Come on,” she says, bumping your shoulder lightly with hers as you get out.

Inside, it smells like heaven — bitter espresso, warm bread, oranges.

The woman behind the counter greets Alexia like an old friend. There’s no fanfare. No photos. Just two women smiling, exchanging a few quick words in rapid Catalan you don’t understand.

Alexia orders for you without asking, confident, easy, and you don’t even mind. You sit by the window. The coffee comes. Rich. Dark. Perfect.

You sip. It’s stupidly good. You look at her, eyes wide. She just leans back, arms crossed loosely over her chest, watching you. “Told you.”

You smile at her over the rim of your cup.

You finish your coffees slowly, tucked into that quiet café like it’s your own secret corner of the world.

Alexia props her chin on her hand, watching the street outside more than anything else, but every few minutes her eyes flicker back to you, small glances, as if she’s checking to make sure you’re still there.

You finish your drink, wipe your mouth on the back of your hand, and nod toward the door.

“Show me the rest,” you say.

She smiles. Stands. Leaves a few coins on the table like she’s done it a hundred times before. Probably has.

Outside, the city has stretched into full daylight the buildings throwing long, soft shadows, the streets buzzing without rushing.

You fall into step beside her easily. She doesn’t give you a grand tour. She doesn’t point at landmarks or monuments.

Instead, she shows you her Barcelona. The tiny bookstore with more stray cats than people. The cracked football pitch where she played as a kid. The alley where the graffiti changes every month, thick and layered like a living canvas.

You buy fresh fruit from a street stall, two peaches she insists are the best, and she peels hers without breaking the skin once, flicking it into a trash can with the smoothest little motion you’ve ever seen.

You, less gracefully, get juice on your wrist. She laughs. Low. Warm. Private.

You both sit on a low wall by a park, knees brushing sometimes, peeling bites off the peaches and wiping sticky fingers on napkins she dug out of her bag.

There’s no rush. No schedule. At one point, she asks about you — not the headlines, not the football stuff.

Just you. Your favourite meal. Your worst habit. The first song you ever learned the words to.

She listens, really listens, smiling at some answers, laughing at others, tossing the last bite of her peach to a hopeful pigeon that’s been hovering under the bench.

When you get up again, she nudges you lightly with her shoulder. "You walk slow," she teases.

You bump her back, grinning. "Maybe you walk too fast."

She raises a brow, smug. "Or maybe I’m just better at moving forward." you picked up her not so subtle football dig there with her comment.

You roll your eyes but you're laughing, real, unguarded, helpless.

You wander past shuttered bakeries and tiny ceramic shops, past clotheslines stretched across alleys, past motorbikes parked two to a sidewalk.

You stop at a corner to let a delivery truck pass, and when Alexia steps back, her hand brushes yours. Neither of you move it. Not a big thing. Not fingers lacing. Just touch.

You glance over once. She’s already looking at you. Not intense. Not daring. Just there. Fully. Quietly.

You’re sitting together on a low wall just outside another tiny square, the sun pressing down soft and warm, when Alexia glances at her watch and winces slightly.

You raise an eyebrow. “Time to go captain some people?”

She smiles, sheepish. “In a few hours. But...” She hesitates, for half a second, something flickering across her face. Not doubt. Just care “I was thinking…” she says slowly, slipping off the wall and brushing her palms against her jeans. You blink. She shifts her weight, glancing down the street. “I’ll have to leave soon for the game. But I want to show you my place. Get you settled in. Before.”

She shrugs, trying to sound casual. You can hear the not casual tucked underneath it. You stand, brushing the seat of your jeans, smiling. “Lead the way.”

The drive out of the city is short. The streets stretch wider, the buildings breathe out. The hills roll up around you, green and sun-shot and lazy.

When Alexia pulls into a long, private drive, your mouth actually falls open. You can’t help it.

Because her house It’s beautiful.

Sprawling but not obnoxious, modern without feeling cold pale stone and wide windows and the flash of a pool catching the sun in the backyard. Olive trees line one side of the garden, low and heavy with thick leaves.

Alexia cuts the engine, tosses her keys into the console, and glances over at you, grinning when she catches your face. “Bit different to you imagined, huh?”

You scoff. “Bit different to reality, more like.”

She laughs, light and proud.

You follow her up the steps, Teddy would lose his mind here you think, and she pushes open the door with a casual nudge of her shoulder.

Inside, it’s light and clean and lived-in. Photos tucked into shelves. Boots left near the back door. A jacket, Barcelona’s, slung over the kitchen chair.

She shows you around quickly, sweeping hand gestures, half-apologetic about the laundry basket sitting half-full near the stairs.

Kitchen first — huge, bright, glass doors leading out onto a sun-bleached patio where you can see the pool glinting like a promise.

Living room next — low couches, big TV, one of those weird modern fireplaces set into the wall.

Home gym tucked around the back — more trophies and shirts than you can count framed along the hallway toward it.

And upstairs — a guest room that’s bigger than your whole flat, sun pouring across the duvet like an invitation.

She stops outside her own bedroom, hand on the door but not opening it.

“You can um bring your bag up and unpack whenever you want,” she says, thumb tapping the doorframe lightly.

You nod, shouldering your bag tighter, trying to hide the way your heart’s thudding a little harder again. “Thank you” you say, meaning way more than just the tour.

Alexia shrugs, looking at you from under her lashes. “No problem.”

Simple. True. Before either of you can say anything else, her phone buzzes. You see it, the team group chat lighting up the screen.

She grimaces. “Duty calls.”

You grin. “Go.”

She points at you as she backs toward the stairs. “And don’t get lost in my house.”

“No promises,” you call after her, and she laughs, real and full, before disappearing to grab her kit.

You’re left standing there in the middle of her home — her life — the windows open, the pool sparkling, the space around you full of something you hadn’t even let yourself hope for yet.

You’re standing by the front door, bag dropped by your feet, sneakers on, heart thudding lightly against your ribs, not heavy, not anxious.

Just... full.

Alexia’s in her matchday tracksuit now club crest pressed proud over her chest, sleeves tugged down to her knuckles. Hair tied back, boots dangling from one hand.

She’s fidgeting slightly not nervous about the game, you realize. Nervous about leaving you.

You lean against the doorframe, arms folded, smiling at her softly.

“I’ll be fine, you know,” you say, voice low.

She huffs a little, a self-conscious shake of her head. “I know. I just—” She glances out at the driveway where her car is waiting. “I asked Alba to pick you up. My sister.”

You blink, surprised, not at the offer, but at the thought.

“She knows the way into the estadi,” Alexia continues, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder. “Better than most security, honestly.”

You laugh under your breath, warmed by how carefully she’s thought about this.

“She’ll be here soon,” Alexia adds. “I didn’t want you being alone. Didn’t want you... feeling out of place.”

You shake your head. “I wouldn’t.”

She steps closer anyway, like she can’t help it.

And suddenly you’re standing right there. Only inches apart. The soft weight of the moment tugging at both of you.

Her hand brushes your elbow lightly as she grabs the keys she almost forgot.

“Thanks for not making me feel like a tourist,” you say, teasing.

She smiles too, eyes crinkling, and for a second you think she might say something more, something bigger.

But instead, she steps back. Slow. Regretful. You catch the way her fingers brush her thigh once, like she’s resisting the urge to stay, to reach for you again.

“Enjoy the match,” she says, voice a little rough around the edges now.

You nod. “Go win it.”

She smiles once more, soft, sure, and then she’s gone, door swinging gently shut behind her.

You stay there for a second. Just breathing.

⚽️

You’re upstairs when you hear the sound, tyres crunching the driveway gravel, a soft, two-toned beep of a car horn.

You freeze for a second, holding a folded shirt halfway into the guest room dresser.

Alba.

You glance at the clock. Plenty of time still Alexia was never going to leave you rushed.

You drop the rest of your things onto the bed, brushing invisible wrinkles from your jeans, checking yourself once quickly in the mirror without meaning to. Not nervous.

Okay, maybe a little.

You jog lightly down the wide staircase, the open living room yawning out around you. Teddy would love it here, you think again absently. And then the front door swings open.

Alba steps inside like she’s been doing it her whole life, which, you guess, she has, car keys jingling in one hand, sunglasses pushed into the messy bun on her head.

She spots you immediately. And smiles. Big. Not polite. Not stiff. Warm.

“Hey!” she says brightly, tossing the keys into the little bowl by the door. “You must be the famous one.”

You blink, a little stunned. “I—uh—hi,” you manage, stepping forward awkwardly, hand half-extended before you realise you don’t know if she’s a handshake or a hug person.

She decides for you. She tugs you into a quick, friendly hug, no pressure, no hesitation. “I'm Alba," she says as she pulls back, grin wide. "Alexia’s sister. Obviously."

You laugh a little, already relaxing. “Yeah, I figured.”

Alba steps back, scanning you with an exaggeratedly thoughtful look. "You look normal," she teases. "I was expecting someone taller. Intimidating. Maybe with secret agent vibes."

You snort. "Sorry to disappoint."

She waves it off. "Nah. She likes you. That means we like you."

Your cheeks flush hotter than you can control, but Alba barrels on before you can crumble under it.

"We’ve got loads of time before we need to go," she says, glancing at her watch. "She probably just panicked and rushed out without feeding or watering you, didn’t she?"

You laugh, nodding. "Something like that."

Alba grins. "Knew it. She’s useless under pressure when it’s not on a pitch.” She heads toward the kitchen with a flick of her hand, calling over her shoulder, "Come on. Let’s get you a drink."

You follow, heart lighter than it’s been all morning.

Inside the kitchen, Alba pulls two glasses from a cabinet without asking if you want one, just knowing, and pours something cool and golden, sliding one across the counter to you.

"Relax," she says, lifting her glass in a half-toast. "You’re in the circle now."

You clink glasses with her, grinning despite yourself. The circle. Her circle.

And maybe it’s the easy air of Alba, the way you didn't have to think what to say because you couldn't get a word in anyways or the warmth of the house still clinging to your skin, or the fact that Alexia wanted this. But for the first time since you landed, you don’t feel completely overcome with nerves.

⚽️

The car ride is easy.

Alba drives with ease one hand on the wheel, window half-down, sunglasses perched lazily on her head again. Music hums low through the speakers something local, something with a heavy beat that thrums through the seat beneath you.

You sit back, drink in hand, feeling yourself settle into it.

She chats nothing heavy, nothing pointed.

Asks about your German club, your impression of the city so far, whether you’re a coffee person or a tea person. Tells you a ridiculous story about Alexia getting lost on the metro once as a teenager and swearing it was because 'the map lied.'

You laugh real, surprised and Alba smiles like that was exactly the point.

Just treating you like someone welcome. Like a new friend. You’re grateful for it more than you can say. By the time you pull up near the stadium massive, bright, pulsing with early matchday energy, you feel almost ready.

Almost.

Alba flicks the ignition off and slings her bag over her shoulder in one smooth move. “Come on, England,” she says, bumping her hand lightly into your shoulder as you both climb out. “You’re about to see real football.”

You roll your eyes. "Is that what you call it?"

"In Spain, we call it winning." She grins, slinging an arm around your shoulder for half a second before steering you toward the stadium entrance. "Something you don't know here" You couldn't help the laugh and playfully shoved her away from you.

In the stadium. It’s chaos, but controlled chaos.

Fans already filling the stands, scarves flashing in team colours, the buzz of anticipation climbing higher with every step closer to the pitch.

Alba moves through it like a pro nodding at stewards, flashing a lanyard at security, weaving you through the crush of bodies without hesitation.

You barely have time to take it all in before you’re ushered through a side entrance and up a short flight of stairs into a section marked FAMILIA tucked just above pitch level, the view perfect.

Alba leans against the railing, arms folded, surveying the field like she owns it.

You slide into a seat beside her, nerves bubbling lightly in your stomach now..

You glance at your phone once no new messages then tuck it away, just as the first players begin to stream onto the pitch for warm-ups.

Your heart kicks harder. And then. There she is. Alexia. Jogging lightly across the grass, warm-up jacket open, hair bouncing with every step. Focused. Sharp. Beautiful.

You watch her, frozen. You wonder if she’ll see you. If she’ll be too locked in, too professional.

But mid-stretch, mid-conversation with a teammate she glances up toward the stands. Scans. Finds you. Locks eyes.

And even from here you can see the change. The way her shoulders ease. The way her mouth twitches, just barely, into something small and secret and meant only for you.

Your breath catches. She gives you the smallest nod, sharp, barely-there, but it says everything.

I see you. I'm glad you're here.

Alba nudges you with her elbow, smirking slightly. “Good seats, huh?”

You clear your throat, trying to sound casual. “The best.”

She just grins wider and turns back to the pitch pretending she hasn’t noticed a thing.

You sit back. Heart racing. Eyes on her.

The game starts quick, faster than you expected, the kind of breakneck pace that makes even the home fans tighten in their seats.

You’re sitting forward almost immediately, elbows on your knees, chin resting in your palms, eyes glued to the pitch.

You spot her instantly. Calm. Sharp. Moving like she’s reading a book no one else has even opened yet.

But even she can’t control everything.

The first twenty minutes are rough passes just a little off, the other team pressing high, forcing mistakes you rarely ever see from this squad. The atmosphere shifts. Not angry. Just… tight.

You don’t even realise you’re gripping the edge of your seat until Alba nudges your arm lightly.

“Relax,” she says, voice low. “It’s early.”

You nod. You try. But your knee’s bouncing before you even know it.

Every time Alexia gets the ball, your heart jumps willing something clean, something brilliant. Sometimes it comes. Sometimes it doesn’t.

The crowd murmurs grow louder as the half wears on frustration crackling in the warm air like static.

And then out of nowhere a turnover. A fast break the other way. And before you can even sit up properly- Goal.

For them. You swear under your breath, heart sinking as the away fans explode somewhere to your right.

Alexia turns immediately, rallying, clapping, calling out instructions, but you see it. The flicker of frustration. The tightness in her jaw.

Halftime whistle blows not long after. You sink back in your seat, exhaling sharply, dragging a hand through your hair.

Alba hands you a bottle of water without looking, casual as anything. “You’re more stressed than she is,” she teases, grinning.

You shake your head, half-laugh, half-miserable. “She’s out there,” you mutter, barely loud enough to hear yourself. "I don't do well just watching"

Alba’s smile softens a little. “She’s fine," she says. "Worried about you more than herself, probably.”

You don’t know if she means to say it. If it slips out. But you don’t question it.

You just sit there watching Alexia disappear into the tunnel with her team feeling the beat of your heart pounding against your ribs.

The stands buzz during the break the low rumble of conversation, of half-hearted chants, of fans refuelling hope with overpriced snacks and superstition.

You sit back in your seat, arms folded tight, heart still racing, eyes flickering anxiously down to the tunnel.

Alba stands, stretching lazily. “Beer?” she offers, grinning like she’s not at all concerned.

You blink. Smile, small. Nod. "Yeah. Please. Why not?”

She disappears into the throng of fans, moving with the easy grace of someone who’s navigated this stadium a hundred times.

You lean back, exhale slowly, hands scrubbing over your face.

A few minutes later, she’s back two plastic cups in hand, foamy and golden. She hands you one with a mock salute.

“To surviving first halves,” she jokes.

You clink cups, laughing softly. You both sip, the taste crisp and slightly bitter. After a moment, Alba nudges you again gentle this time.

“So,” she says, settling back into her seat. “Tell me about Teddy. The legend himself.”

You grin, almost immediately pulling out your phone. You swipe to your gallery you definitely have an entire album labeled TEDDY 🐾.

Alba leans in, resting her chin lightly on your shoulder to get a better look.

First up — Teddy in his raincoat. She snorts immediately.

“Diva.”

Swipe.

Teddy covered head-to-paw in mud after a particularly reckless park run. “Rebel,” Alba comments, approvingly.

Swipe.

Teddy asleep under a pile of your hoodies. "Smart," she says. "Knows the value of good real estate."

And then — You both pause on that photo.

You, sprawled across your sofa in grey joggers sporty & rich emblazoned on them and a Calvin Klein sports bra. Teddy is draped directly across your lap, snoring like his life depends on it.

But what really stands out even through the sleepy chaos is you. The toned, defined abs cutting clean down your stomach.

Effortless. Unintentional. Stupidly unfair. You laugh softly, ducking your head, feeling the heat crawl up your neck. "Ignore that," you mutter, reaching to swipe past it.

But Alba leans away, raising an eyebrow dramatically. "You're joking, right?" she teases. Grabbing your phone for apparently a better look, "You’re body's banging"

You freeze for a split second caught off-guard.

Alba catches it, but doesn't push. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t say more. She just grins and tosses the phone lightly back into your lap. "Good abs. Great dog. Terrible self-awareness," she says breezily.

You laugh, genuine and a little helpless, heart thudding unevenly.

Before you can come up with a smart reply, the stadium announcer cuts through the noise. Second half about to start.

The players stream back onto the pitch.

And there, right in the middle of it all, standing tall and steady and looking right toward your section. Game face on. Ready. You tighten your grip on the beer cup. Settle in.

Alba nudges your arm again, voice low. "Relax," she says. "This is where it gets good." You don’t look at her. You don’t need to. Your eyes are locked on her. And you believe it.

The second half kicks off hard.

Barcelona come out different, sharp, coiled, teeth bared like they remembered who they are during that halftime talk.

You’re on the edge of your seat within minutes. The ball zips through midfield faster, the press higher, the tackles sharper. Alexia moves like a storm orchestrating everything, pulling invisible strings with every look, every shout, every touch of the ball.

Five minutes in — Equaliser.

The stadium explodes.

You’re half-standing, one hand fisted in the hem of your hoodie, heart hammering. Alba slaps your back, whooping.

Another ten minutes. Barcelona take the lead.

A sharp finish, clean through the keeper. You shout without thinking, the noise ripping from your throat, swallowed up immediately by the tidal wave of cheers around you. You catch a glimpse of Alexia, fist pumping once, jaw tight, eyes burning.

But it doesn’t stop. Goal after goal. Four, five, six.

You lose track somewhere in the middle the pure chaos of it overwhelming but Alexia is at the heart of all of it, running the game like it’s a private performance just for you.

You swear — swear — she glances up toward the family section after every major play. Not searching for approval. Just checking you're still watching.

And you are. You couldn’t look away if you tried. By the time the seventh goal hits the back of the net, you’re hoarse from shouting, grinning like an idiot, beer long forgotten under your seat.

Alba’s laughing beside you, half-hugging random people in your row, yelling over the din, "We don't do boring games here!"

You laugh too, breathless, exhilarated, feeling like your whole body might lift right off the ground with it.

And finally. In stoppage time. Goal eight.

It’s Alexia who starts it winning a scrappy ball in midfield, slipping it out wide, following the play like she knows exactly where it’s going.

When it curls into the box, she’s there ghosting past defenders, rising up at exactly the right second to bury it in the back of the net with a perfect header.

The stadium detonates. You’re screaming without even realising it, hands in your hair, lungs burning, heart stretched so full it almost hurts.

She lands, stumbling forward, arms wide team piling onto her in celebration. But even then. Even as her teammates swarm her. Alexia looks up.

Straight to your section. Straight to you. You don’t know if she can see you clearly if the distance and the lights blur it all. But you’re standing now, clapping, smiling so hard your face aches, nodding like an idiot.

I see you. I’m here. I’m proud.

The final whistle blows barely a minute later.

The roar of it vibrates through your ribs, through your spine, through your very bones. Barcelona. From 0-1 to 8-1

A massacre. A masterpiece.

You turn to Alba, laughing breathlessly and high fiveing.

⚽️

You and Alba are perched on the low concrete barrier just outside the secured gate, plastic cups of leftover water cradled in your hands, your legs swinging lightly.

The players are slowly filtering out still in their matchday tracksuits, hair damp from showers, energy buzzing higher than the stars overhead.

You spot her immediately. Walking out with a couple of teammates Patri and Mapi both laughing about something you can't hear yet, boots slung over their shoulders, kit bags knocking against their hips.

Your heart lurches. You sit up straighter without meaning to. Alba notices. Smirks to herself. Says nothing.

Alexia spots you, of course she does, and her whole face softens, just for a second. A flicker. A breath.

Then she's steering toward you, casual, playing it cool. Too cool. Patri spots Alba first and waves wildly, jogging the last few steps to pull her into a quick, noisy hug.

"¡Alba!" Patri laughs. "You're always here!"

"Someone's gotta keep you humble," Alba teases back.

Mapi grins at you, sharp and curious, tipping her chin up in hello.

You smile quick, polite feeling about three seconds from vibrating out of your skin.

Alexia stops in front of you just enough distance to be proper, not enough to stop feeling like the whole world narrowed to this moment.

"Hey," she says, low and a little rough from shouting through ninety minutes.

"Hey," you echo, equally useless.

There's a beat just a second where you both hover there, not quite knowing if you should hug or not, not quite knowing where you were with each other just yet.

Then Patri and Mapi sweep the tension aside without even trying.

"So," Patri says, sliding her arm around Alexia’s shoulders easily, "Your the friend she has staying with her, we’ve heard about?"

You blink.

Alexia flushes actually flushes and ducks her head, laughing under her breath.

You open your mouth not even sure what you’re about to say but Mapi cuts in with a wide, playful grin:

"We were worried she made it up."

You laugh properly nerves bursting like soap bubbles in your chest. "Happy to confirm I'm here," you manage, sticking your hand out awkwardly for a shake.

Patri slaps it away and pulls you into a quick, casual hug instead all warmth and no hesitation. "You staying long?" she asks, releasing you.

"Just tonight," you say, glancing at Alexia before you can stop yourself. "Got a game Tuesday"

Alexia catches it. Smiles. Soft, shy. Patri and Mapi share a quick look you’re definitely not meant to catch.

But they don't say anything else just toss a few more jokes Alba’s way, ribbing each other like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

You stand there, sipping water, feeling the sticky hum of the stadium still clinging to your skin, Alexia just close enough that you can feel the heat of her. Not touching. Not rushing. Just there.

Exactly where you want to be.

The conversation hums around you for a few more minutes easy laughter, Alba teasing Mapi, Patri swinging her bag around dangerously close to Alexia’s legs until she finally side-steps and gives her a look that could wither a tree.

You stand there, half in the circle, half outside it. Still not totally sure where you fit.

But Alexia stays close.

Close enough that your arms almost brush when she shifts her bag. Close enough that you can feel her thumb tracing idle little circles against the strap of it, like she’s working up to something.

Finally, when Mapi and Patri start peeling away toward their own cars waving, shouting goodbyes over their shoulders. Alexia turns toward you.

Just you. Tugs lightly on the hem of your sleeve with two fingers.

A soft, almost shy little pull. You look up. Meet her eyes. She clears her throat once, quiet. “You wanna ride with me?” she asks, voice low so it doesn’t carry.

Her sunglasses are tucked into the neckline of her tracksuit now. Her hair’s still a little damp at the temples from the match. She looks exhausted and beautiful and like she’s hoping really hoping you’ll say yes.

You smile small, easy. “Yeah,” you say, letting the word land in the space between you. “I’d like that.”

The look she gives you, brief, brilliant, almost boyish in its relief. Hits you low in the chest.

Alba grins as she catches on. “Guess I’ll take my own car then,” she says, exaggeratedly put-out, tossing her keys up and catching them with a smirk.

You flash her a grateful smile. She just winks at you, no real pressure in it, no teasing just welcome to the family.

Alexia leads the way toward her car low, sleek, black against the white glare of the stadium lights.

You fall into step beside her, bag slung over your shoulder, matching her pace without thinking.

Neither of you talks much as you walk. You don’t need to. There’s something thick in the air not tension exactly. Just awareness.

When she unlocks the car with a soft beep, she opens the passenger door first a tiny, stupidly old-fashioned gesture that makes your heart squeeze unexpectedly tight then tosses her own bag into the backseat.

You climb in. Buckle up. She gets in too, pulling the door closed with a soft click that seals the two of you into this small, private world.

The engine purrs to life. She glances over once, quick, like she still can’t quite believe you’re here.

Then she smiles small and secret and pulls away from the stadium, the road unfurling into the quiet Barcelona night ahead of you.

No fanfare. No big words.

Just her hand resting casually on the gearshift, her body loose with tiredness, her energy still somehow drawn toward you like a tide.

The city flickers past in soft blurs streetlights washing gold across the windshield, neon signs blinking sleepy messages you’re too relaxed to translate.

The windows are down. The air is warm. A little salty still from the sea. A little electric from everything that’s still buzzing in your chest.

Alexia drives one-handed, easy and loose, elbow propped casually on the door. The other hand hovers near the gearshift relaxed, fingers tapping an absent rhythm against the leather.

You sit quietly beside her, turned slightly toward the window, letting the night wrap around you both. Somewhere along the way, she flips the radio on low volume, something mellow and scratchy and Spanish, the beat soft and old and safe.

You tap your fingers lightly against your thigh, matching the tempo without realising. Alexia notices.

You catch her glancing at you once, just once, a tiny smile ghosting over her lips before she looks back at the road.

Neither of you talks at first.

Not because there’s nothing to say. Because there’s so much to say, and none of it needs to be rushed.

Finally, a few minutes in, Alexia breaks the silence voice rough from the game, softer now. "You really stress-watched the first half, huh?"

You snort under your breath, turning your head to look at her. "You saw that?"

She grins quick and sharp. "Alba sent me a picture."

You groan, dragging a hand over your face. "Traitor."

Alexia laughs low and warm and you swear it vibrates right through your chest. "It was cute," she says after a beat, a little more serious, a little more honest.

You lower your hand, glance at her just in time to catch the way she’s looking at you.

Not teasing. Not playful. Just looking. The kind of look that feels like standing barefoot on the edge of something huge and good and a little terrifying.

You hold it for a second longer than you mean to. Then you clear your throat lightly, breaking the spell before you drown in it. "You didn’t seem stressed," you say, fiddling with the hem of your hoodie. "Out there."

She shrugs, the smallest roll of her shoulders. "I was."

You blink. "Really?"

She nods once, slow. "First half was..." She trails off, searching for the right word. "Messy." She taps the steering wheel lightly with her thumb. "I kept thinking..." she says, quieter now, "what if you flew all this way and I gave you a terrible game?"

Your heart flips over so fast it almost hurts. You stare at her, at the way she’s half-smiling, half-hiding behind the motion of driving.

You reach for words. Find only the truth. "You could’ve lost eight-nil," you say, voice steady. "I still would've been proud."

She glances at you, fast, sharp. Then she looks away, but not before you see it.

The way her mouth curves. The way her fingers tighten slightly around the wheel. The way she breathes out like she’s been holding it in for longer than just tonight.

You let the silence settle again after that. Soft. Easy. Like a promise tucked into the dark. You’re almost back at her place now the city giving way to low walls and olive trees and the wide stretch of private drive.

The tires crunch over the gravel of her driveway, the headlights sweeping across the stone and low olive trees.

She parks with a casual ease, switches the engine off, and the world outside the car drops into a warm hush.

No street noise. No stadium roars.

Just the cicadas buzzing softly in the distance and the thick, heavy stillness of the late Barcelona night. Neither of you moves right away.

You sit there, the car cooling around you, the faint hum of the radio fading into silence.

Alexia finally glances over at you a small, hesitant smile flickering at the corners of her mouth. “Come on,” she says, voice low, almost a whisper.

You follow her out of the car, bags forgotten for now, the air soft against your skin as you walk side by side up the path. She unlocks the door, swings it open. But she doesn’t head straight inside.

Instead, she jerks her chin toward the side gate, the path that loops around the house toward the garden and the pool beyond.

You hesitate only a second. Then follow.

The patio stones are cool under your sneakers, the pool ahead gleaming softly under the light of the moon. Water still. Perfect.

Alexia drops her keys onto a table, kicks off her shoes without a word, and pads barefoot toward the low wall by the pool.

You slip off yours too, matching her without thinking. She sits, legs swinging slightly, toes brushing the surface of the water.

You sit beside her, a safe inch of space between you. For now.

For a while, you just sit there the house at your back, the whole wide, soft night stretching out in front of you.

Alexia leans back on her hands, head tilted up toward the stars “You’re quiet,” she says after a moment not accusing. Just noticing.

You glance over, smiling faintly. “So are you.”

She shrugs one shoulder. “Feels like a quiet kind of night.”

You hum in agreement, letting your own hands fall back onto the stone, palms flat against the cool surface.

You’re close enough now that your arms brush when you breathe in deep enough. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of her, even under the open air.

She tips her head sideways, looking at you out of the corner of her eye. "You want a glass of wine?"

You grin, lazy now. "Always."

She smiles back slow and real and pushes herself up with an easy roll of her shoulders. You follow her inside, barefoot and buzzing.

In the kitchen, she moves easily grabbing a bottle of red from a low shelf, pulling two mismatched glasses from a cupboard. No pretence. No performance. Just home. She pours. Hands you a glass.

You clink them together softly, no words, just the clink and the shared little smile between you.

And then without discussing it you drift back outside, glasses in hand, settling into the deep lounge chairs by the pool.

The stars scatter across the sky like someone spilled silver paint. The air smells like salt and olives and warm stone. You sip your wine.

She leans her head back and sighs long and low and content. You don’t need to talk. Everything important is already humming between you. The kind of night that doesn't ask for anything.

You glance sideways at her once catch the way the light catches her profile, softens her edges, makes her look a little like a dream.

She catches you looking. Raises an eyebrow, amused. "What?" she says, playful.

You just shake your head, smiling into your glass. "Nothing," you say, voice low and warm.

The wine is halfway gone.

The stars hang heavy and low, like they’re closer here, closer because you’re sitting with her, side by side, letting the world fall away.

Alexia leans back in her chair, glass balanced loosely in one hand, head tipped toward the sky.

You mirror her without thinking, lazy, loose, comfortable in a way that sneaks up on you. It’s quiet for a long moment. Then out of nowhere, soft and real. Alexia says. “My dad would’ve liked you.”

You turn your head, startled by the quiet honesty of it. She’s not looking at you eyes still on the stars but you can hear the weight tucked into the words.

“He was the... welcoming type," she says, lips quirking slightly. "Always wanted the house full. People everywhere. Laughter. Even when it was chaos. He would of enjoyed the way you play football”

You smile, picturing it. Her, growing up in a house like that. “He sounds brilliant,” you say, meaning it.

Alexia hums, low in her throat. “He was,” she says simply. Then she’s quiet a second longer, swirling the wine in her glass. “Sometimes I think he’s still here. Just... quieter now.”

You sit with that. The beautiful, impossible hope of it. And you don't rush to fill the silence. You let her have it.

Alexia shifts a little, glancing at you from the corner of her eye. “My mami's the boss, though,” she says with a small, teasing smile “Doesn’t matter how old we get. She'll still text me after every match to tell me if I look tired, or if my socks were too low.”

You laugh soft, genuine. “She sounds terrifying."

“She is,” Alexia says, grinning. “In the best way. She's a softy really”

You tuck your feet up onto the chair, glass resting against your knee. “She must be proud of you," you say.

Alexia shrugs, but it’s not dismissive it’s shy. “I think so. She won’t say it much. She’ll just... pack too much food in a bag when I go visit.”

You laugh again, picturing it Alexia, superstar, carrying away plastic containers like a teenager heading to university.

Alexia watches you laugh, her face softening, her eyes catching the moonlight. “What about yours?” she asks.

You shift a little in your seat, glass resting on your knee.

And for a moment, you wonder if you should just tell her the easy version.

But something about the way she’s looking at you — open, steady — makes you want to say the real thing instead.

You swallow lightly.

“It’s... complicated,” you say first, voice quieter.

Alexia tilts her head, waiting. You take a breath.

“My mum and dad had me,” you start, words slow and careful. You pause, swirling the last sip of wine in your glass. “Then my mum had an affair. That’s... how my little sister came along.”

Alexia’s gaze sharpens slightly, not judgmental. Just seeing you. Really seeing.

“They split up after that,” you continue, a half-shrug working up your shoulders. “It wasn’t dramatic no screaming matches, no throwing things. Just... this weird silence. This broken... thing.”

You pick at the hem of your shorts.

You laugh under your breath not bitter, just tired.

“My dad remarried. Had two boys. Something he always wanted”

You set your glass down carefully on the stone, tracing the rim with your finger.

“So now it’s like... I’m caught in the middle. Not fully part of either side. Not really sure where I fit.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, the honesty of it tasting a little raw now that it’s out.

“Sometimes I feel like a guest in both homes," you admit. "Loved, sure. But... still kind of the wrong piece of a jigsaw trying to fit in. Christmases are awkward. Birthdays are even worse, I never celebrate my birthday, can't upset anyone then when I chose the wrong person to spend it with.”

You huff a laugh dry, not bitter.

“I love them,” you say. “All of them. Even when it’s messy. Even when I don’t always know where I... fit.”

You expect it to hang heavy between you that confession. But it doesn’t. It just settles. Softly.

You risk a glance at her, at Alexia, who’s sitting there, still and steady in the warm dark. She doesn’t look uncomfortable. She doesn’t look sorry for you. She just looks... present. Solid.

When you stop talking, when you let the silence fill in the cracks, she doesn’t rush to fix it.

Alexia doesn’t say I’m sorry — thank God — or offer some neat little fix.

She just leans back against the lounge chair, looking up at the stars, she shifts a little closer. Lets her knee bump lightly against yours “Sometimes it’s the messy ones who fight the hardest to love you.”

You blink. Look at her. And feel something pull deep in your chest. You tilt your head, studying her in the moonlight.

“Is that so?” you ask, quieter than you mean to.

She smiles a tiny, soft thing. “So I'm told,” she says.

You both fall silent again. Not uncomfortable. Not unsure. Just... there.

You take a sip of your wine, letting the warmth bloom in your chest, and when you set the glass back down, your hand brushes hers again — this time more deliberate.

“Thanks,” you manage, your voice rougher than you mean it to be.

Alexia just smiles small, real, enough. “You’d get along with my Mami, too,” she adds after a beat, a little lighter, nudging your leg with hers. “She’d adopt you instantly. Especially if you bring wine.”

You laugh the sound bubbling up, easing the tightness in your throat. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You sit there a little longer shoulders brushing, glasses forgotten, the stars turning slowly overhead.

Two kids from broken families for very different reasons, finding something simple in the middle of it all: Each other.

She glances sideways at you, not startled, not nervous, just there.

Present. You breathe out a soft laugh, barely more than a sigh, and tilt your head back, looking up.

The stars are stupidly bright tonight. Like a show meant just for you two.

“I missed this,” Alexia says, voice barely a thread of sound.

You turn your head, curious. “This?”

She nods, eyes still upward. “Quiet. Someone who doesn’t need me to talk all the time. Someone who...” She trails off, searching. “...who just sits.”

You smile, small, knowing. “I can sit,” you say lightly.

Her lips curve. That small, soft grin that always threatens to undo you. “I noticed.”

For a little while, you both just stay like that not speaking, not moving listening to the faint splash of the pool, the occasional flick of a night bird overhead, the rhythm of your own breathing matching hers without even trying.

And then without warning Alexia shifts. Not big. Not dramatic. Just leans ever so slightly sideways her shoulder brushing yours.

Barely there. Barely anything. But it feels like everything. You don’t look at her. You don’t have to. You just sit there side by side, skin to skin, letting the night wrap itself around you like a blanket you both chose to share.

No words. No need. Just the slow, steady thrum of something building, something growing, something that feels inevitable now.

You let your hand slide down the armrest between you not grabbing, not reaching just resting your fingers lightly against the edge, where her hand already lies.

Your pinky brushes hers. Once. Twice. You don’t push it. Neither does she. But you feel the shift.

“Ever feel like you don’t get to just... exist anymore?”

You turn your head, surprised by the sudden vulnerability but you catch the way she’s not really looking for an answer. Not yet.

You let the quiet settle first. Then you nod. “Yeah," you say simply. “All the time.”

Alexia’s breath hitches just a tiny thing like she’s grateful you didn’t make her explain it. She leans her head back again, staring up. “It’s like…” She frowns, searching for the words. “Everywhere you go. Every time you put the kit on. Every post, every match, every minute someone’s filming, or watching, or pulling. Or wanting to question you”

Her voice drops even softer.

“They don’t see you anymore. They just see what they want from you.”

You shift slightly closer, almost without meaning to your knee brushing hers now. You know exactly what she means. Exactly.

You let out a long, slow breath. "Sometimes I feel like I’m made of... tiny pieces," you whisper. "Handed out one by one. For the press. For the fans. For the club. For the national team." You glance at her. "And there’s never enough left over for me. To. Just be me."

Alexia tilts her head, eyes catching yours across the space and it’s not a heavy look. It’s a knowing one. Soft. Shared. "You get it," she says simply.

You nod. "I get it."

She smiles, a small, tired thing, but real. Real in a way you know she doesn’t let many people see. She nudges your pinky with hers just the lightest brush, a tiny anchoring touch. And then she murmurs "Feels different with you, though."

You swallow against the tightness rising in your chest. "Yeah?"

She nods once, sure. “With you, it feels like... I’m still just Alexia.”

She pushes herself up, stretching slowly, arms overhead, her hoodie riding up just slightly over the waistband of her shorts. You catch the glimpse of skin before you can look away.

She smiles down at you slow, sleepy and jerks her head toward the house. “Come on," she says, voice low, a little rough with tiredness. "Before we both fall asleep out here."

You grin and force yourself to your feet, your body feeling heavier, but your heart somehow lighter. You follow her across the patio barefoot, silent the doors left open to let the cool night air slip inside.

The kitchen is dim, the living room bathed in a low, soft glow from a lamp someone forgot to turn off. You both move instinctively now, without talking leaving your empty glasses on the counter, flicking off a few lights as you go.

You reach the hallway together that soft, quiet space that splits toward her room, your guest room, the rest of the house.

You both slow there. Stop.

The hallway light spills between you pale, warm, catching on her hair, the soft edge of her smile.

Alexia leans a shoulder into the wall, hands slipping into the front pocket of her hoodie.

She looks at you. Really looks at you. In a way that makes your stomach flip, slow and certain.

She exhales a little laugh under her breath, shaking her head.

“What?” you whisper, smiling without meaning to.

She shrugs, shy for the first time all night. “Nothing. Just... glad you're here.”

Your chest tightens warm and aching and real. You step a little closer not touching, but close enough to feel it hum between you.

She tilts her head slightly, studying you like she wants to memorise this second. Then she says soft, playful "Sleep well. I’ve got a busy day planned for us tomorrow."

You raise an eyebrow, teasing. "Oh yeah? Am I gonna survive it?"

She grins that beautiful, tired, wicked little grin. "Maybe."

You both stand there for another heartbeat neither of you quite moving yet, neither quite ready to end it.

Her hand brushes yours just barely as she pushes off the wall and steps backward toward her room. "Buenas noches," she says, almost a whisper.

"Goodnight," you whisper back.

And as she disappears down the hallway hoodie sleeves dragging lightly along the wall you’re left standing there, heart thudding, skin buzzing, smile tugging stubbornly at your mouth.

You head into your room, still feeling her everywhere.

#alexia x reader #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas fanfic #woso fanfics #alexia putellas #woso #barca femeni #barcelona femeni #alexia putellas imagine #woso imagine #alexia putellas x y/n #alexia putellas one shot #fcb femeni

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crushpunky · 2 days ago

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drew pops the question to actress!reader

masterlist | actress!reader masterlist

takes place aug 2023 <3

Y/n let out a sigh of contentment as she and Drew passed through the doorway of their home, y/n’s heels long gone as they dangled from Drew’s hands. Her skin still felt warm from the sun, the two of them having sat out on the sunny deck of the restaurant. It wasn’t often the two of them were able to go out for dinner and remain lowkey, but by some grace of god, they had managed to finish their meal (and a bottle of wine) without interruption. Not wanting to push their luck any further, they opted to have their dessert curled up on the couch at home.

Charleston padded over, his tail wagging as he greeted the two of them excitedly.

“So, uh, I was thinking,” Drew cleared his throat, “since the weather’s so nice, how about we take a walk down to the beach?”

At the sound of his favorite word (“walk”) Charleston let out an enthusiastic bark before he darted over to the spot where his leash hung on the wall.

“Sure. That sounds great, right Charlie?” Y/n giggled, patting Charleston’s head. She gave his ear a scratch with her freshly manicured nails, the dog almost letting out a purr. Drew blinked quickly as he looked between y/n and Charleston, his mouth hanging open slightly.

“Well, I was sorta thinking it would just be the two of us.” Drew said quickly. Y/n’s eyebrows raised in surprise, before relaxing as she nodded.

“Ok, yeah,” Y/n grinned, to which Drew let out a small sigh of relief. “I’m just gonna go grab some shoes—”

“I’ll get them. I, uh, have to grab some… chapstick.” Drew said, starting back towards their bedroom. Y/n furrowed her brows, but brushed Drew’s sudden awkwardness off before she turned back to Charleston who gazed up at her with wide eyes.

“I’m sorry, Charlie.” Y/n cooed, leaning down to press a kiss to Charleston’s head. “I’ll take you on an extra long walk tomorrow, hmm?”

Y/n swore she could hear the dog let out a groan before padding away to curl up into his usual spot on the couch. Almost as fast as he had gone, Drew came back, a grin on his lips as he walked up to her. He snaked his arm around her, his forearm brushing against the sliver of bareskin between her top and skirt.

“How are these?” Drew asked as he held up a pair of white sandals. Y/n took them with a smile before tossing them onto the ground in front of her. She reached down, grabbing onto a handful of her white, silk skirt and lifting it just high enough to slide on the sandals.

“Perfect,” Y/n said. “And they match my outfit.”

“What can I say,” Drew pressed a kiss to her temple, “I have an eye for fashion.”

Y/n giggled, throwing her head back. Drew grinned, giving her waist one last squeeze before he moved to entwine his hand with her own.

“Alright, let’s go fashionista.” Y/n said. Drew chuckled before opening the door, allowing for y/n to step out before he followed. The two of them walked down the familiar trail to the beach, their entwined hands swaying between them with each step. As they neared the surf, y/n noticed a sprinkling of twinkling candles adorning the sand.

“Those are new.” Y/n said with a chuckle. Once they stepped into the sand, y/n could see that it wasn’t just candles. A picnic blanket rested atop the sand with two cushions, a vintage cooler nestled between them. Y/n’s brows furrowed before she looked over at Drew, who simply stared back at her with a mischievous grin.

“Is— did you do this?” Y/n asked. Drew didn’t answer, just moving to snake his arm around y/n’s waist as he ushered her closer to the blanket. Once they reached it, he gently sat her atop one of the cushions before he sat opposite her.

“What is going on?” Y/n laughed, smoothing down the silk of her skirt as she looked around.

“I felt bad skipping out on dessert so…” Drew opened the cooler to reveal two pints of ice cream, but not just any two pints of ice cream. Flown in straight from her hometown, one pint of y/n’s favorite flavor and one of Drew’s own. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had that ice cream, tasted the creamy goodness as it melted on her tongue. Y/n let out a squeal, practically tackling Drew as she threw her arms around him in a suffocating hug.

“Oh my god I love you, I love you, I love you!” Y/n said, pressing a barrage of kisses to Drew’s flushed face as he let out a giggle. Once she pulled away, Drew dug into the cooler and handed her her ice cream. She took it with a wide smile, pressing another quick kiss to Drew’s cheek as he handed her a spoon. Y/n cracked the pint open, taking a big inhale of the sweet aroma before she dug in. As soon as the frozen delicacy touched her tongue, she let out a moan before falling to rest her head on Drew’s shoulder.

“That good, huh?” Drew teased as he took a bite of his own. Y/n laughed before taking another bite. The two of them ate their ice cream and watched the ebb and flow of the surf, their conversation flowing gently over the soft noise of the ocean until Drew suddenly rose to his feet. He dusted off his shorts before offering his hand out to y/n. She quickly put their ice cream back in the cooler before taking Drew’s hand, the boy hauling her to her feet with a grin.

His hand remained entwined with hers as they walked towards the water, the wind blowing gently just as the sun began to set along the horizon, bathing the beach in orange and pink light. After a few steps, Drew stopped before turning towards y/n, taking both of her hands in his own. He squeezed them both lightly, grinning back at y/n.

“Y/n y/ln,” Drew whispered, “you are… far and away the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

Y/n smile widened, her cheeks warming at the gentleness in Drew’s voice.

“I can’t imagine the person I’d be without you— I don’t want to imagine the person I’d be without you,” Drew continued, “and I’m the luckiest man alive just because I get to know you. You are the absolute love of my life and—”

Drew let out a small cough, his cheeks flushed. In her palms, y/n could feel Drew’s hands shaking slightly as he spoke.

“And you are it for me.” Drew said with a long exhale.

Then he reached into his pocket and took a step back, dropping down onto one knee.

Y/n’s heart stopped, her jaw immediately dropping as she let out a gasp. His hands trembling, Drew produced a small box from his pocket. Slowly, he opened the box to reveal a glittering diamond ring.

“Y/n y/ln,” Drew said lowly, “will you marry me?”

Y/n’s hands moved to cover her mouth as she let out a small whimper, tears immediately springing to her eyes as she nodded her head rapidly.

“Yes, yes, oh my god, yes!” Y/n choked out, rushing forward as Drew rose to his feet just in time for her to crash her lips against his. The two of them savored the kiss before pulling away to look at each other's tear streaked faces, which caused both of them to let out breathy laughs.

Drew took a still shaking hand and carefully took the ring from the box before reaching for y/n’s hand. He lifted it to his lips, brushing a kiss against her knuckles before he slid the ring on.

“Oh my god!” Y/n squealed, Drew lifting her hand to better see the way the diamond nestled perfectly atop her finger.

“I love you so much.” Drew murmured, snaking a hand around y/n’s torso and bringing her closer to him. Their noses brushed against each other as y/n looked up at him, both of their smiles impossibly wide.

“I love you.” Y/n said, resting her head against Drew’s chest. His arms wrapped firmly around her, Drew pressed a kiss to the top of her temple before laying his cheek atop her head.

There the two of them stood, so tightly entwined within each other it was almost impossible to tell where one of them ended and the other began, as the sun vanished across the horizon, marking the end of what had quickly become the best day.

#drew starkey #drew starkey x reader #drew starkey x actress!reader #actress!reader

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oojamaflip-whatchamacallit · 2 days ago

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#is someone holding them at gunpoint to admit these things?#like they do know they dont need to admit that they didnt think mexico had cities until they were 21 right?#and in general they dont need to go posting about how actually dont bother to think about the world outside of the us#also gotta love the library consultation argument#in highschool i had 1 book that had all the content for that trimester#1 book for all the classes.#it was like 11 classes it doesnt get any more “to the test” than that i would say#like im sorry#you guys have LIBRARIES in your schools? thats insane

#and you know#what about the internet.#not a single drop of information about other countries in there?#a crumb? a dust particle of information?#and also.#why would you NOT think that mexico has cities?#i mean i know the answer is because its too hard for USAians to even acknoledge that anything beyond their country even exists#but still why would you assume the us and europe are the only places with that?#because i know this kind of shit isnt applied to europe

#and yeah i know your education system sucks everyone knows that nobody is questioning that#but getting til age 21 without know mexico had cities is way beyond the education system#thats just not bothering really#not caring at all about anything beyong the us border#like in how many of those years did you have access to the internet??#and just to finish this off because i need to sleep

#DID your garden really have less fruits and flowers? or did you just not bother to go explore and find more of them?#did they really build a wall around your garden so tall you couldnt see past them?#or did you not bother to go beyond the floral print picnic blanket because it was more confortable than the grass?

(paragraph breaks added for readability, emphasis mine)

im american and i knew that like in kindergarten so i think some of you are just stupid sorry

#prev your TAGS #adding these to the post bc damnn

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stereoqueen · 2 days ago

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sunshine - pt3 - l.hughes

summary: a few days have passed, and luke realizes he needs to make a move. what he doesn’t know is that the move is quite literally barreling towards him.

< previous > < next >

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

“Pearl girl! Where are you baby?” Hallie asks into the empty apartment, waiting to hear Pearl answer. A small bark and tippy taps of paws answer her question as her golden cocker spaniel runs to the door. “Hi baby, you ready for some fresh air?” She asks her pup as she bends down to pick her up. “Gettin’ so big, let me get your harness on before we go!” Pearl licks Hallie’s fingers with excitement, causing her to set her down so she could pick up the yellow harness. “Wait I gotta change hon, I’m sweaty! give me five.” Pearl whines as Hallie runs into her room to get changed. She quickly through on a pair of leggings, a michigan sweatshirt and ran back into the hallway. Pearl was sat patiently by the door, waiting to go outside. “C'mon, give me two seconds then we can go!” Her owner says as her pup sassily grumbles. Hallie quickly puts on the harness and leash, grabs her wallet and headphones from her gym bag, and they are out the door.

It was a beautiful March Tuesday in Hoboken. The sun was out, the grass was green, and the park called Pearl’s name. Hallie was tired. She was exhausted from the lack of sleep the night before and was excited for the day off. Her brain couldn’t get Luke out of it since Sunday. He made her whole week; running into her at the coffee shop, paying for coffee, remembering her and her order, talking with her, and showing her around. The walk to the park was a straight shot. Hallie was playing Silver Lining by the Neighbourhood on her walk there. Humming along, she didn’t notice Pearl jerk forward, losing her grip on the leash. Pearl sprinted to the park, causing Hallie to take her afternoon walk into a run. “Pearl!” She yelled as Pearl ignored her, running into the greenery.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Luke needed time to think without his brother’s constant pestering. So, he drove to a near by park before heading home for the day. The fresh air could do him good, he thought as Quinn’s text rang in his mind from Sunday about Hallie.

The text was looming in his brain as he pushed Quinn’s contact to call him. It rang 3 times before the line picked up.

“Look who finally came to his senses! What’s up Luke”, Quinn’s voice boomed through the phone as Luke scoffed.

“Well when you put it like that maybe I don’t need your help!” He says annoyed as he walks out of his car and into the park gate.

“Oh bud, you need my help over Jack’s,” His brother’s stern voice cracking him up.

“Fine. I don’t know what to do or how to even approach her again. I haven’t seen her in 2 days and I’m going crazy,” Luke sighs as he finds a bench to sit on.

“Awe little lukey is in looooove,” The drag of the love causing Quinn to laugh at himself.

“Are you going to give me advice or do I have to annoy Mom next?” Luke’s annoyance translates well over the phone as the big brother mode switched back on, “Come off strong but not too overbearing. Let time work itself out. You two obviously have a connection and chemistry after all these years, so trust it. Next time you see her, ask her for her number. Talk to her more outside of work, hangout with her, take it at a medium pace since the season is slowly coming to an end. Just don’t fuck her after the first date for the love of — ,” Quinn’s speech gets cut off by a grossed out Luke. “QUINN!”

“What. You’re Jack’s brother too. Had to throw that in now.” The two laugh lightly, thinking on the record that Jack had.

“Okay. Think I can ask her out on a date the next time I see her, too?” He asks his brother as he looks out at the river. “Yeah, ask for her number first, then be like, can I take you out too? You guys have similar schedules, so it should be fine. If you don’t man up, though, I’ll deal with you next week and make you introduce her to me!” Luke laughs off the nerves, “Asshole. Ok. Fine. I will. Thanks, bro.”

“I love you, moose. See you soon,” Quinn tells him as they say goodbye. “Yeah, I love you too, Huggy,” Luke reciprocates as he hangs up the phone.

Thinking about his next move, he decided to take the book out from his pocket. It was some book Jack loaned him, and he took in the view of the river. It was peaceful, hearing the birds, listening to the wind, taking in the book. 15 minutes and three chapters later, he heard a big thump next to him. He looked over to his right to see that the bush was…. moving? A pop of golden fur showed up between the greenery, causing Luke to laugh. The dogs’ face was covered in leaves, tongue out, happy as can be. It jumped out of the bush and then up onto the bench next to him excitedly.

“Hi! Where did you come from huh?” He asked the dog kindly as it kept jumping up and down and all over him. When he finally got a hold on the tag, he read the name out loud. “Pearl? What a pretty name for a pretty dog.” She barked happily in response. Before he could see the owners name, an out of breath Hallie came running.

“Holy shit! P can run fast, I’m so sorry—“ She started until she recognized the man who was running through her mind mere seconds ago in front of her. Luke smiled, standing up holding Pearl. Pearl was happy as a clam, snuggling into Luke. “Think Pearl and I are friends now, hi sunshine,” He said as Hallie is stunned as she took of her headphones. Pulling out her phone, she takes a quick photo of the sight.

“She never lets anyone hold her besides me. You have a magic touch or something, Lukey.” Putting the phone down, she admires the sight.

“Maybe I’m just that trustworthy or lovable. I am known to be charming,” A crescent smile on his lips as Pearl barks.

“She agrees. Wanna take a walk with us? Or am I bothering you during your time off?” Hallie asks as Luke puts Pearl back down. The tall man puts immediately puts his book in his back pocket, following her lead as they walk. “You would never bother me, Hal, I’m serious. I enjoy the company,” He tells her as she turns pink.

“P was right, you are a charmer,” She mumbles as Pearl looks behind her to see Hallie and Luke walking close. Their hands were barely brushing each other. Luke was eager to reach out and hold it but refrained against it. His hand lightly reaches out to attempt to grab hers. Pearl shifts to her right, causing Hallie to run even closer into him as a runner passes them by. She halfway trips over her shoe as Luke caught her arm, “I got ya.”

His hold moves from her arm to her hand as the runner moves along, and she lets him hold it. They were now holding hands, sharing the leash as Pearl kept trotting in front of them. “So how’s your day off been? Practice was boring without you,” Luke told her as she shrugged, “Haven’t done much today. Went to a Pilates class, came home, and now I’m here. Not very eventful until Pearl found you." Their arms swinging slowly as they walked together in the loop. Luke and his infamous smirky smile returns when replying to her.

"Well, I hope your day is brightened by seeing me; I sure know that you brightened mine, you always do." He trails off as Hallie switches her grasp from his hand to linking arms. Luke turns pink at the slight change in holds, subtly flexing the bicep she was holding. She looks to him with a small smile. The comfortable silence while walking was enough. Hallie enjoyed his company, Pearl enjoyed the park, and Luke was happy.

Their walk led them to a pier boardwalk lined with shops and places to get lost. Luke adjusted their linked arms so his arm was around her waist as she switched hands to hold Pearl's leash. "I gotta ask something, and I don't want to weird you out," Luke said as Hallie quirked her head towards him.

"What's up, superstar?" She replies as he laughs.

"It's about Pearl. In college, I remember you talking one day with Lauren about wanting a cocker spaniel. You told her, "I want to name my puppy after something important to me." So my question is, why is Pearl's name Pearl? You don't have to tell me, but--" He was cut off by Hallie's laugh. The beautiful laugh that he had fallen for. Her eyes crinkled, causing him not to see those brown eyes he loves.

"You remember so much, Luke. I-- I named her Pearl for multiple reasons, honestly. My dad's family is from the Cape, so my childhood summers were spent at my Grandma's. We'd eat so many oysters because I wanted to collect the pearls. Oddly enough, I found Pearl in that area at a shelter over last summer -- her shelter gave her a cute little oyster-shaped toy that she grew attached to, and I knew it was her." She explained in great detail as Luke listened intently to her story.

He watched as her eyes lit up when she mentioned her grandma, as she talked with her hands to explain, and how her facial expressions made him realize the details of her. "Wow. I didn't know what to expect, but that connection is insane. You like to toy with fate, huh, Pearl?" Luke jokes as Pearl turns around at the sound of her name, causing the pair to smile.

"I'm starving. Know anywhere good around here to eat, Rusty?" Hallie asks as Luke groans at the nickname. "Not you too, sunshine!" He rebuts as she laughs, knowing that using that nickname would get him riled up. His grip on her waist tightened as he pulled her a little closer. She nudged him with her shoulder as she matched his closeness, "Well, it's no secret that you like to eat, Lu."

"You're lucky you're beautiful. I know there are multiple good spots to eat right here. I think I know the best one for both you and Pearl." The hint of snarkiness at the beginning is replaced by anxiety at the end of the sentence. He wouldn't dare to look over to see her reaction to calling her beautiful.

"Lead the way, Mr. Big Leagues." Her voice smooth as Luke lead them to his favorite restaurant on the boardwalk.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Lunch was good. Too good. The food was delicious, Hallie let him order for the two of them, and even got Pearl a snack (as his favorite place is also pet friendly, how sweet).

Their waitress was a woman in her forties, who mistaken them as a couple, but neither of them corrected her. It was nice. It felt meant to be. There was no talk of hockey or work; just bonding over things like the pga tour, food, and debating over what’s the best star wars movie. He talked of his lakehouse summers and Hallie related it to her summers on the Cape. She explained how history is her favorite subject and Luke joked about how Secretariat was his favorite movie.

The chemistry was undeniable. Luke was in awe with how similar they were. Yet, something’s they differed on. Ice cream flavors, football teams, rom coms. He absorbed everything that she told him, and she reciprocated it.

Two hours and two desserts shared later, Luke offered to drive her and Pearl home.

“I parked my car near the park, you want a lift?” He asked as she shook her head no. Sad, he nodded. She saw that his spirit was down. “You can walk me home though? I live about two blocks from the park.” His smile came back and their interlinked hands as they walked to the park from the boardwalk.

The sun started to go down as they walked. She shared an AirPod with him, listening to some cheesy country song. Arms swinging back and forth as Pearl led the way. By the time they made it to her apartment building, her outside light was on. She unlocked the door, letting Pearl inside. Hesitant, Pearl turns behind her and rubs up against Luke’s legs. “Bye Pearl girl, see you soon, ya?” He says softly to her as she takes his pets. She chirps, turning around and leading herself inside.

“I still can not believe how fast she warmed up to you. I—I’ve never had anyone meet her besides my friends back home; she barely tolerates anyone,” She says stunned as Luke leans against her door frame.

“You know, animals can sense if a relationship is good or not for their owner. Maybe it’s a sign,” He replies as Hallie turns a shade of pink. “I think it is…..” She responds, him moving closer to her.

“Look I don’t mean to sound forward but…. can I take you out to dinner sometime?” Luke asks as Hallie’s smile grows.

She pretends to put her hand underneath her chin, thinking, “Hmmmmmmm” It didn’t last long as Luke’s smile was contagious, causing her to break character.

“Yes, I’d like that Lu,” She says as he laughed.

“Can I finally have your number then? After all of these years?” He jokes as she passed her phone over. It vibrated a message as Luke picked it up. Since it was unlocked, he could see who messaged her. He lightly laughed to himself as he saw it. Oh trevor, if only you knew.

Trevor: It’s been like 3 days dude TALK TO HIM!

Trevor: If you mess this up I’m coming up there!

Trevor: Don’t make me pull out the big guns 💪🙈

Trevor: I WILL butt in if need be brooksy!

“Uh, I put my number in, but Trevor has texted you a few times—“ He started to say as Hallie snatched back the phone. “Sorry, he’s a pain in my ass,” She reads a few of them and looks back up at him.

“You didn’t read it, did you?” She took the silence and guilty smirk on his face as an answer. “Oops. Welp. You’ll meet him soon!” He scratches the nape of his neck as she looks at him.

"Is Trevor anyone I should worry about?" His voice was barely above a whisper. She took a step closer, putting her hands around his neck, causing him to instantly relax at her touch. He followed suit, his hands on her mid-back as she slightly swayed. The apartment light highlighted his side profile perfectly as she sighed. "Would I be this close to you if he were a threat?" Her volume matched his as he shook his head slowly.

"He's a friend from home, like an older brother. I--I'll explain another time, yeah?" His nerves were gone when she said the word brother. "Ok. I understand. See you tomorrow?" A smile on his lips as he traces circles on her back. She perks up at the feeling, tiptoeing to kiss him on his cheek. "You bet, superstar," her touch still lingering on his body as she walked back inside.

Once the door was shut, Luke leaned against it, slowly moving down as he sighed. "I'm in deep shit if I mess this up," He whispered to himself as the smell of her perfume was still in the air as he walked away from the door.

On the other side of the door, Hallie was giddy. She tried to avoid jumping up and down as she texted Trevor back. She quickly uploaded the picture of Pearl and Luke earlier into Luke's contact. After ensuring it was saved, she laid on her couch to text Trevor.

Hallie: Attachment 1 Image He held Pearl, and she didn’t bite. Technically, it was our second date, but he officially asked me out on a real one and got Pearl's approval...... this. is. crazy.

Trevor: OH MY GOD. She won't even let your DAD hold her?!

Hallie: I need to call you later after dinner. I am too flustered right now to call🫠

Trevor: I owe Mason $50 damn it!!! Yes, call me soon.

She sat on the couch, reflecting on her great day, when she heard her phone buzz repeatedly. Groaning, she moved from her comfy spot to grab the phone again. "Fucking Zegras," She muttered, then laughed loudly as she saw the contact name Luke had picked out for himself.

Handsomest Hughes: Really great to see you again today. Hope Pearl gets her well-earned beauty rest. See you tomorrow :)

Handsomest Hughes: Don't bother stopping for coffee either, pretty girl. I'll come prepared ☀️☕️

Luke sighs on the other end of the phone, feeling dumb about texting her right after leaving. Walking home, he thought on how he doesn't want to sound clingy, but he also wants to show her that he truly cares.

Sunshine: I need to go to the park more often, if that means seeing you more. Pearl misses you already.

Sunshine: Can't wait ;)

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

taglist: @dancerbailey3 @hwalllllllelujah @chiblackhawks @cosmichughes @skepvids @raweceekk @hufflepanda221b

#written by stereoqueen #stella’s works #sunshine au #luke hughes #espn!reporter x luke hughes #luke hughes x oc #luke hughes x reader #nhl imagine #nhl fic #quinn hughes #jack hughes #new jersey devils #new jersey devils x reader

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dreamersworldduh · 1 day ago

Text

HIS LOVE

• CLARK KENT x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — You'd spent years believing your husband, Clark, was untouchable — the very definition of strength and health. How could he not be? After all, he was Superman. But one night, that belief shattered when Clark stumbled home with the flu — feverish, miserable, and very much human. Suddenly, you found yourself in entirely new territory: caring for the man who had always seemed invincible, and realizing just how much even the strongest among us sometimes need someone to hold them up.

WARNING! FLUFF.

WORDS! 7.2k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Here we are with something cute for our love, Mr. Kent. It was almost a full on smut but I decided to keep it short and sweet—because it was adorable to see Clark all Sicky Vicky. Enjoy your reading ✨🫶🏽

BEING married to Superman wasn't something you stumbled into blindly.

You knew — from the very beginning — exactly what you were getting into. After all, you had been dating Clark Kent since high school, long before the cape, before the world saw him as a symbol of hope. Back when he was just the sweet, quiet farm boy from Kansas who sometimes disappeared without explanation, and who always looked like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders even when he smiled.

You learned early on that loving Clark meant accepting every part of him: the extraordinary, the impossible, the human, and the alien.

The ups were breathtaking. Watching him save lives, watching people's faces light up just by seeing him swoop down from the sky — it filled you with pride in a way words could never fully capture. You got to see the purest side of him: the kindness he gave to everyone, the strength he wielded without arrogance, the way he never hesitated to put others before himself. And you got to see the side of him few others ever would — the man who loved quietly and deeply, who held you at night like you were his anchor, who whispered dreams about building a life together in a little house with a porch swing.

But there were the downs, too.

The late nights where he didn't come home right away because a mission had dragged on longer than expected. The mornings you woke up to find his side of the bed cold and empty, knowing he had heard a cry for help halfway across the world and hadn't thought twice about answering it. The terrifying, gut-wrenching moments when you watched a news broadcast showing Superman bloodied, battered, facing threats you couldn't even comprehend — moments when your heart froze in your chest, praying he would come back to you.

There were the public eyes, the constant whispers, the way your life could never be completely private. You learned to live with cameras flashing when you walked down the street hand in hand, to ignore the questions, the gossip. Being with Clark meant being a part of his legend, whether you wanted it or not.

And yet... despite all of it — because of all of it — you said yes.

You said yes knowing that you weren't just marrying the most powerful being on Earth. You were marrying the man who cried with you during sad movies. The man who burnt toast at least once a week and tried to hide it with that sheepish grin. The man who knew how you liked your coffee, who kissed your forehead every morning like it was a promise renewed. The man who had trusted you with every secret, every fear, every dream.

You had loved Clark Kent long before the world ever loved Superman.

And now, as his husband, you carried both the gravity and the wonder of that love every day. It wasn't always easy — but it was always worth it.

Because at the end of every mission, every battle, every impossibly long day, he always came back to you.

And you would always be there, waiting, ready to be his safe place — just as he had always been yours.

IT was nearing 11 p.m., and the apartment was cloaked in a kind of sleepy stillness that only late-night hours brought. The soft, persistent tick of the wall clock echoed through the open-concept space, mingling with the occasional rustle of pages turning from the stack of unopened mail beside you. You sat at the dining table, hunched over your laptop, the pale blue light from the screen casting faint shadows across your tired face. Half your attention was fixed on clearing out an embarrassingly overdue pile of work emails. The other half? It was firmly rooted in the quiet anticipation of the front door opening.

Clark had texted about forty minutes ago: finishing up at the Planet, be home soon. You'd glanced at the message, smiled faintly, and returned to your inbox—but with every passing minute, your ears were tuned sharply to the hall.

So when the door finally creaked open with a tired groan, you looked up immediately—and froze.

Clark stepped in, and your breath caught in your chest.

He didn't move like Superman. He didn't look like the invulnerable man who could fly through fire and face down titans. He looked... human. Painfully, unmistakably human.

His broad shoulders were sagging under an invisible weight, his damp hair stuck up in uneven tufts like he'd been raking his fingers through it all night. His dress shirt, usually so crisp and neat, was wrinkled and half-untucked, his tie askew. And his face—oh, his face. His eyes were red-rimmed, glassy, and his nose had that slightly pink, tell-tale flush around it.

He didn't even get two steps inside before he pitched forward with a forceful, muffled sneeze.

"hhHH'TSCHhh!... hhh'KNGGSHHh!"

You blinked, stunned.

Another fit hit him immediately, his large frame shuddering with each breathless expulsion. He barely managed to catch the sneezes in the crook of his arm as he stumbled toward the wall for balance, his other hand fumbling for a tissue that wasn't there.

"hh'RRSSCHhhh!... hh'GHhhSHh!"

Your mouth parted, a mix of concern and awe written across your face.

"...Clark?"

He sniffled, glanced over at you with bleary eyes, and gave you the most pitiful, congested groan you'd ever heard.

You quickly pushed your laptop aside and stood up. "Are you—are you sick?"

Clark tried to answer, but his body betrayed him again, doubling over with a wrenching sneeze that nearly knocked him off balance.

"hh'EHHHshh-CHHh! snrfff... 'Scuse be," he croaked, voice rough and wrecked beyond recognition.

You rushed to his side, gripping his forearm as he swayed a little. "Oh my god—Clark, you're sick."

He waved a hand weakly in protest. "I... I'b fide."

You gaped at him like he'd just told you he was an alien all over again. "Clark Joseph Kent. You are absolutely not fine. You're burning up!"

Your hand found his forehead, and your heart leapt. He was running a fever. Not just a little warm—hot. Hotter than any normal person should be. And the worst part? He looked surprised by it.

Clark leaned heavily against your side, utterly drained. "It's just a cold," he muttered hoarsely. "Probably caught it from Jenkins... He was sneezing all over the bullpen today. I figured—figured I'd be immune."

You stared at him, caught between genuine concern and complete disbelief. "You're Superman. You literally shrugged off a plasma blast last month. But Jenkins' sniffles got to you?"

Clark let out a snuffly, self-pitying sound as he pulled a crumpled tissue from his pocket and blew his nose with a honk that made you wince in sympathy.

"Don't laugh," he mumbled, seeing the corners of your mouth twitching.

You tried. You really did. But the sheer absurdity of it broke through, and a breathless laugh escaped you.

"I'm sorry!" you said quickly, reaching to guide him toward the couch. "It's just... You've fought alien warlords. And now you're losing a battle with rhinovirus?"

Clark groaned and all but collapsed onto the couch, flinging an arm over his face. "I'b dying," he said dramatically, voice muffled and thick.

"You're not dying," you replied, grinning as you tossed a blanket over him and began fussing with the cushions. "You're a dramatic overachiever with a cold."

He peeked at you from beneath his arm, eyes glassy but warm. "Lucky be," he whispered.

You softened immediately, crouching beside the couch to adjust the blanket around his shoulders. "Yeah, yeah. You're lucky I love you. Now hush and stay put. I'll get tea, meds, tissues—the whole kit."

As you stood to head for the kitchen, Clark reached out and caught your hand, his fingers wrapping loosely around yours. He looked at you, soft and sleepy, a shadow of his usual strength.

"Thank you," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "For always being here."

You squeezed his hand gently. "Always," you said. "Even when you're a sniffling mess."

He smiled—just a little—and settled back into the cushions with another sneeze that shook the frame of the couch. You shook your head affectionately, heading off to get the tea and tissues.

Superman might have been down for the count tonight, but as his husband, you were ready for battle. Armed with honey-lemon tea, menthol rub, and more tissues than a drugstore aisle.

Let the healing begin.

THE morning light bled gently through the bedroom curtains, casting long, honeyed stripes across the soft tangle of blankets cocooning Clark's oversized frame. He was nearly lost in them—only a mop of unruly dark hair and the bridge of his flushed nose visible above the mound of fabric. Every so often, a congested snore or a wet sniffle broke the silence, followed by a faint groan as he shifted restlessly in his sleep.

You nudged the bedroom door open with your hip, arms carefully balancing a breakfast tray laden with comfort: a steaming bowl of broth you'd seasoned just the way he liked, a glass of cool water beading with condensation, a small bottle of cold and flu medicine, a fresh packet of tissues, and a digital thermometer resting atop a folded napkin.

The door creaked softly as you entered, and Clark stirred, letting out a low, half-conscious groan that sounded more like protest than greeting. His eyes blinked open blearily, red-rimmed and glassy with fever. For a second, he just stared at you as if trying to make sense of whether you were real or part of a particularly vivid fever dream.

"Morning, sunshine," you murmured, voice warm and teasing. You set the tray on the nightstand and lowered yourself to sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle him too much.

Clark attempted to sit up, only to collapse back against the pillows with a helpless grunt, dragging the comforter up to cover his face.

"Uh-uh," you said, already reaching for the thermometer. "Don't even think about moving. You're not going anywhere today."

A pathetic groan vibrated from beneath the covers. "I'b fide," he rasped from his cocoon of fabric. "I jus'... need tea. And mayde... a shower."

You pulled the blanket down just enough to reveal his face—sweaty, pink-cheeked, and pitifully snuffly. His hair was matted at odd angles and his nose was chapped at the tip, the clear sign of someone who had blown it far too many times.

"Clark, you can barely keep your head up. You're not going to the Planet today, and you're definitely not flying anywhere." You pressed the thermometer into his mouth before he could launch another weak protest.

He stared up at you with a wounded expression, as if being mothered offended his Kryptonian sensibilities.

The thermometer beeped, and you frowned as you pulled it free and checked the reading.

"102.3," you announced grimly. "That's it. You're grounded."

He coughed into his arm, breath hitching toward another sneeze. "hhh'TSCHHHhh!... hhhH'GGSCHhh! snrf" He reached blindly for the tissues, and you were already handing them to him.

"Bless you," you said, watching as he blew his nose with a long, exhausted honk. He dropped the used tissue into the wastebasket beside the bed and flopped back, his voice a hoarse mutter. "I'b Superman. I should be able to fight off a flu."

"And yet, here you are," you replied, smoothing your palm gently across his sweat-damp hair. "A sneezy, sniffly mess. Which, by the way, doesn't make you any less of a superhero. It just means you're not invincible."

He peered up at you, sniffling miserably. "You're scary when you're in nurse mode."

You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his fevered forehead. "Good. Maybe now you'll listen when I say stay in bed."

You shifted the tray toward him and uncapped the medicine. "Drink this, then try a little of the soup. I'll let you sleep after."

Clark reached weakly for the medicine, downing it with a grimace. "Tastes like... kryptonite in liquid form."

"You'd know," you said, handing him the spoon. "Now hush and eat before it gets cold."

He took the bowl, cradling it in his large hands like it was sacred, then took a slow sip. His shoulders relaxed just a little, the warmth clearly offering some comfort.

"You're the best," he croaked after a moment, glancing at you with bleary gratitude.

You smiled softly, brushing your fingers along his jaw. "I know."

As he settled back into the pillows, still sipping soup between sniffles, you curled up on the edge of the bed beside him, just close enough for him to reach out and rest his hand over yours.

YOU stood barefoot in the kitchen, the soft light of a gray morning filtering through the window above the sink. The air smelled faintly of lemon and eucalyptus — a scent you'd started diffusing last night in a futile attempt to clear Clark's sinuses — and the mug in your hand was warm against your palm as you stirred honey into a cup of steaming chamomile tea. With your phone wedged between your ear and shoulder, you tried not to spill any as you reached for the box of tissues on the counter.

"Yeah, I'm going to be out today," you said quietly into the receiver, your voice steady but laced with fatigue. "Clark's down with something, and... well, he's not great at being sick."

Your assistant on the other end — sharp, capable, and usually unshakeable — paused. "Wait, Clark's sick? As in, actually sick?"

You nodded absently, knowing she couldn't see you. "Flu. Or something flu-adjacent. He's been running a fever since yesterday, barely slept last night. It hit him hard."

"I didn't even think Clark Kent could get sick," she said with surprise. "He always seems like one of those guys who just powers through everything."

You smiled faintly, stirring the tea a final time. "He tries. That's the problem."

A muffled sneeze echoed down the hallway, followed by a rattling cough and the soft thump of something hitting the nightstand. You didn't flinch — you were already used to the chaos.

"Do you need me to handle the meeting with R&D?" she asked after a moment. "We're still expecting updated specs on the prototype by noon."

"I'll send over some notes," you replied, cradling the mug carefully as you moved toward the hallway. "But keep an eye on Luthor. If he tries to pull that timeline stunt again, I want to know before he opens his mouth."

There was a pause. Then: "Copy that. Hope Clark feels better soon."

"Thanks," you said, ending the call with a gentle tap of your thumb.

The house felt different without Clark moving through it — no sound of him shuffling around in socks, fussing over the coffee pot, or humming aimlessly to himself as he pretended to read three newspapers at once. The quiet had a weight to it. All that filled the air now was the occasional sneeze or the low, chesty cough coming from the bedroom.

You pushed the door open gently with your elbow.

Clark was a lump under the covers, curled on his side with the blankets pulled halfway over his head. Only the mess of his dark hair, sticking out in damp waves against the pillow, and the tips of his ears gave away that he was even awake. The tissue box was tucked under his arm like it might float away if he let go, and his glasses — forgotten — sat crookedly on the nightstand, fogged from last night's fevered attempts to stay upright.

You crossed the room quietly and perched on the edge of the bed. "Tea," you said softly.

Clark stirred, blinking at you through bleary, red-rimmed eyes. "You didn't go in?"

"Nope." You set the mug down on the nightstand and reached to brush a stray curl from his forehead. "LexCorp will still be standing tomorrow. You, on the other hand, sneezed hard enough to rattle the window at 4 a.m. So no, I'm not letting you out of this bed."

A sheepish smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Did I really?"

"You scared the cat. And possibly the neighbors." You leaned in and kissed his temple, which was still alarmingly warm.

He coughed, the sound rough and exhausted, and reached for the tea with both hands like it was holy. "You didn't have to stay."

"Yes, I did," you said plainly, grabbing a pillow and fluffing it behind his back. "Because if I didn't, you'd try to go to work and then collapse somewhere in the bullpen. Or on a subway. Or mid-commute."

He chuckled, then winced and curled into himself a little. "Okay. Point taken."

You passed him two cold medicine tablets and sat beside him, watching as he obediently swallowed them and took a sip of tea. His throat worked visibly, and then he exhaled slowly, already sinking deeper into the pillows.

"You're too good to me," he murmured.

You stroked your fingers through his hair gently. "I'm just the right amount of good to you. And you'll pay me back in foot rubs, long baths, and a weekend where I don't touch a single dish."

He gave a raspy little laugh, his eyes already fluttering closed. "Deal..."

Then twenty minutes later.

Twenty. That was all. Just long enough to toss a load of laundry into the machine, field two urgent emails from LexCorp's legal team, and—miraculously—put on real pants instead of the threadbare sweats you'd been living in since Clark's fever started. You hadn't even closed the bedroom door behind you when you left. Everything had seemed calm: Clark asleep, soft snores filling the room, tissue box within reach, a cool compress resting on his forehead. Peaceful. Contained.

So when you returned to the living room and were met with a scene that looked like a domestic comedy had collided with a weather disaster, you froze in the doorway, stunned into silence.

There he was—Clark in all his six-foot-whatever, fever-ridden glory—standing barefoot in the middle of the floor wearing his oversized Metropolis Meteors hoodie and a pair of pajama pants that had clearly lost the battle against whatever soup or oatmeal had spilled on them. His hair was a chaotic mess of tufts and spikes, as though he'd been caught in a blender or sneezed mid-brush and never recovered.

In one hand, he clutched a mop like it was some medieval weapon. A thin film of soapy water slicked the hardwood floor beneath him. And behind him? Burnt toast smoldered sadly on a plate near the sink, while the remnants of oatmeal—overboiled, hardened, and now clinging to the stovetop like dried plaster—begged for mercy.

Clark turned to you, watery eyes bright with some blend of pride and illness. His voice came out in a croaky rasp, made worse by congestion, but no less sincere.

"Surprise!" he declared. Then immediately sneezed.

"hhHRRrTSSCHh'uh! ... Hehh'GGSCHh!" The force nearly knocked him off-balance. He wobbled slightly, dropping the mop with a clatter as it narrowly missed your foot.

You stared at him, processing the flood of information: the puddle threatening the nearby power strip, the scorched breakfast, the smell of disinfectant wafting through the air from... somewhere. The man you loved stood like a soggy warrior in the aftermath of battle, looking both miserable and hopelessly pleased with himself.

"Clark," you said, your tone walking the tightrope between horrified and endeared. "You tried to cook... and mop?"

"Multitasking," he croaked proudly, wiping at his nose with the sleeve of his hoodie, which you mentally added to the 'must-wash' pile.

You sighed, stepping gingerly over the puddle and gently prying the mop from his hand. "Okay. First of all, we're not gonna flood the living room. Second, we are definitely not burning toast on my watch."

"I was trying to help," he mumbled, shoulders sagging as the full weight of his fevered rebellion hit him. "I hate feeling useless. Lying in bed doing nothing all day drives me insane."

You softened immediately, kneeling down to start mopping up the puddle. "I know you were. But sweetie, you're literally leaking. Your eyes, your nose, your energy levels — it's all coming out of you like a faucet. This," you gestured to the oatmeal carnage, the scorched bread, and the damp floor, "is not helping."

Clark sniffled, trailing behind you with a roll of paper towels and the expression of a scolded Labrador. "I miscalculated."

"You think?" you muttered, wringing out the mop. "For the record, even at full health, you're banned from solo cooking anything that involves boiling water or bread."

"But I make great grilled cheese," he argued weakly.

"That was once," you shot back. "And it only worked because I supervised and you didn't sneeze into the skillet."

He offered a sheepish, pink-cheeked smile—whether from fever, shame, or both, you couldn't tell—and dropped onto the couch with a weary sigh. He pulled the blanket over his lap and nestled into the cushions, clutching the tissue box like a lifeline. You watched him for a moment: the way his lashes fluttered from fatigue, the soft sniffle that punctuated every breath, the unmistakable vulnerability in how small he looked when he didn't have the strength to pretend otherwise.

"Couch," you said firmly, tossing the now-damp towel into the laundry basket. "No more mop missions. No more breakfast experiments. You're officially on rest duty."

"Yes, Doctor," he mumbled, voice trailing off as his head lolled back against the pillow.

"And you're lucky you're adorable when you're a disaster," you added, walking over to press a kiss to the top of his tousled head.

He murmured something unintelligible and nestled deeper under the blanket, already drifting toward sleep. You stood there for a moment longer, surveying the semi-contained chaos and listening to the soft sound of him breathing. The storm had passed—for now.

And you knew, as you always did, that no matter how strong he was in the world outside, here at home, he was allowed to unravel.

And you'd always be there to gather the pieces.

THE evening had finally exhaled into a rare kind of hush.

Golden lamplight bathed the living room in a soft glow, and the steady tap of your fingers on the keyboard was the only sound beyond the occasional hum of traffic filtering in through the window. You were curled into your usual corner of the couch, a blanket over your legs, your laptop balanced comfortably across your thighs. A half-drunk mug of tea sat nearby, forgotten in the lull of productivity.

The house still carried traces of the day's earlier chaos — the faint tang of citrus disinfectant clinging to the air, and a lingering whiff of burnt toast that not even an open window had managed to erase. You'd spent part of the afternoon mopping up sudsy water and scraping oatmeal off the stove, but now, with everything in its place and your feverish husband tucked away for a nap, the world felt briefly — blissfully — quiet.

Until it didn't.

From the hallway came the unmistakable sound of socked feet dragging across the hardwood floor. You paused mid-sentence, fingers hovering over the keys as you turned your head.

Clark emerged from the bedroom like a man resurrected... albeit slowly and with questionable coordination.

He had a fleece blanket was haphazardly draped over his frame like a superhero cape on its last day of duty. His pajama pants had a suspicious soup stain near the knee, and his hair stood up in jagged tufts, flattened on one side from his pillow and sticking out like a sunburst on the other.

A balled-up tissue peeked out from the hoodie pocket, and his nose... well, it had crossed the threshold from pink to full Rudolph status.

He sniffled, cleared his throat with a congested rasp, and made a slow, exaggerated beeline for the TV.

"I'm picking a movie for us," he announced, voice hoarse but determined.

You didn't look up. "Is this movie going to involve explosions, intergalactic warfare, or dragons?"

"No," he said far too quickly.

You smirked into your screen.

He began scrolling through Netflix with all the gravity of someone solving a national crisis. "Why are all these rom-coms about bakers falling for small-town mechanics?" he grumbled. "Do they think the only career path to love is pastry?"

"It's called joy, Clark," you said, eyes still on your email. "Some of us like frosting and Christmas tree farms."

After a few more dramatic scrolls and a few muttered complaints, he settled on a 2009 romantic drama with a title so generic it might have been randomly generated. The kind of movie that was guaranteed to include a slow-motion kiss in the rain and a dramatic airport monologue.

He collapsed onto the couch beside you with a theatrical sigh.

You didn't react.

He sighed again, louder.

You kept typing.

Then came the nudge: a gentle tap of his knee against yours.

Still nothing.

Finally, the pièce de résistance: a congested whine, dragged out for maximum pity.

"Babyyyy..."

You sighed and glanced at him over the top of your laptop. Clark Kent, usually a beacon of strength and stoicism, was giving you the most pitiful pair of puppy-dog eyes imaginable. His bottom lip jutted just slightly. His hand emerged from beneath the blanket and reached for you blindly like he might dissolve without contact.

"I just..." he murmured, voice thick with congestion, "I just need... something. Contact. A little bit. Like... a foot. Or a shin. I'll settle for shin."

You closed your laptop with a resigned huff and set it aside. "You're impossible."

"I'm delicate," he corrected, snuggling deeper into the couch cushions like an overgrown child. "And love-starved."

You shook your head and extended your legs across his lap. He immediately grabbed the edge of the blanket and tucked it around them like you were royalty and the couch was your throne.

His hand rested gently on your calf, thumb rubbing slow, grateful circles.

"Better?" you asked, resting your head back against the couch.

"Much," he murmured. "You're warm. And not covered in tissues."

A beat of silence passed between you — peaceful, close — before you added, "This doesn't get you out of the kitchen damage report."

He groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. "I was trying to help!"

"And I love you for it," you said, chuckling. "But I'm also hiding the mop.

He chuckled too, the sound low and wheezy. "Probably wise."

You glanced at him — hair a mess, face flushed, already halfway to sleep — and smiled softly.

No matter the chaos, the sneezing fits, the scorched breakfast, or the mop-induced flood... this right here, the quiet moments tucked between the mess, were your favorite.

You reached over and brushed a stray curl from his forehead, watching the tension melt from his brow before focusing on the movie.

Maybe thirty minutes into the movie, your focus had drifted to the man curled up beside you.

Clark had claimed your legs the moment you'd relented, tucking them over his lap like they were his by right — and honestly, they kind of were. He was still wrapped in that rumpled hoodie, the sleeves bunched at his forearms and the hood slightly askew like he'd pulled it on during a sneeze attack and never fixed it. His cheeks were still pink from the fever, his nose a little raw around the edges, and his hair — good god, his hair — looked like it had squared off with a wind tunnel and lost. But beneath all the sick-day wreckage, he looked content. Warm. Peaceful.

And then, without a word, he reached under the blanket and began gently rubbing your foot.

Your eyes darted down, confused by the sudden shift from passive snuggling to purposeful movement. "What are you doing?" you asked, half-suspicious, half-intrigued.

Clark looked up at you like it should've been obvious. "Foot massage," he said hoarsely, congestion clinging to his voice. "As part of my apology."

You quirked an eyebrow. "I thought the apology was picking a movie and then begging me to let you touch my shin."

"That was the emotional groundwork," he replied, pressing his thumbs into the arch of your foot with surprising skill. "This is the follow-through. I'm a man of layers."

"Apparently."

You leaned back against the couch cushion, watching him. His brows were drawn slightly in focus, lips parted as he concentrated on getting the pressure just right. His thumb traced a firm circle beneath your toes, then slid along the heel, pausing to knead at the ball of your foot like he'd done this a hundred times. It was slow, patient, and unexpectedly soothing.

"You really don't have to do this," you said softly, your voice dipping toward something tender.

Clark looked up at you briefly, and there it was again — that quiet sincerity, buried under the sniffles and the hoodie and the ridiculous mop of hair. "I want to," he said simply. "You've been dealing with me all day — the sneezing, the kitchen disaster, the oatmeal incident... You deserve at least this."

You exhaled, long and slow, as the last of the tension started to melt from your legs. His hands moved with steady purpose, never rushing, never too much. You could feel the care in every touch.

"Better?" he murmured.

You nodded, eyes fluttering closed for a second. "Yeah. Honestly, yeah. Way better."

He gave a crooked, sleepy grin — then sneezed violently into his elbow.

"hhH'RRSSCHhh! ... snff Sorry," he groaned, reaching for one of the many tissues tucked beside him.

"Still romantic," you teased, smiling at him with affection.

Clark gave you a sheepish look as he blew his nose. "I contain multitudes."

You laughed — full and soft and honest. He grinned back at you, flushed and ridiculous and somehow still devastatingly beautiful. Even with a tissue in hand and a voice like gravel, he was every bit the man you loved.

"You're a disaster," you said fondly.

He reached for your other foot with a sniffly sniff and a determined gleam in his eyes. "Then let me be your disaster."

Your chest tightened — in the good way. In the I-didn't-know-I-needed-that-until-right-now way.

You didn't reply. You just watched him, your leg rising slightly as he cradled your ankle, his fingers curling around you with quiet devotion. His touch was gentle, intentional — not just a foot rub, not really. It was him finding a way to say thank you without needing to say much at all. A way of caring for you when he barely had the energy to care for himself.

And in that soft, flickering light — with the bad movie murmuring in the background and the world tucked away outside — you let yourself fall into the warmth of it. His body, his hands, his love. The slow, clumsy comfort of being seen.

It wasn't perfect. It was sneezy, and warm, and chaotic, and utterly human.

And it was exactly right.

As his hands were still on your foot — strong, slow, deliberate — his touch had shifted. The pressure wasn't just for comfort anymore. His thumbs traced firmer circles along your arch, and then up the slope of your ankle, trailing just under the hem of your pajama pants.

You glanced at him, raising a brow. "That doesn't feel very flu-safe."

He didn't look up, just let out a soft hum. "I'm feeling slightly better," he said, voice still rough around the edges, but lower now — velvety, with that familiar weight he only used when he wasn't just being affectionate. When he was looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that could make him feel better.

Your breath caught slightly as his hands moved higher, both now working their way slowly up your calves under the blanket. His fingers trailed the seams of your pants, brushing lightly against bare skin. You felt heat crawl up your neck.

"I think," he murmured, finally looking up at you through those heavy-lidded eyes, "the most effective way for me to recover is... physical closeness."

"Oh really?" you asked, amused, your voice low. "Is that a scientific conclusion, Doctor Kent?"

He smirked, a little crooked and a little unwell — which somehow only made it sexier. "Absolutely. Proximity to my husband dramatically increases immune response. Especially when said husband is warm, shirtless, and on top of me."

You rolled your eyes, but the flush in your chest betrayed you. "Clark, you literally sneezed on yourself ten minutes ago."

He leaned forward, his hands leaving your legs just long enough to slide over your hips, tugging you closer, until your laptop slipped off to the side with a soft thud. His breath brushed against your jaw.

"I'll try not to sneeze on you," he whispered, voice gravelly and quiet, "if you promise to keep touching me."

His lips hovered at the edge of your throat, warm and soft — and then he kissed you, slow and deep. Not the fevered, messy kind you might've expected, but something more deliberate. Like he was savoring it. Like he needed it.

You melted into it. One hand found the back of his neck, the other slipped beneath the collar of his hoodie, and you felt his skin, warm and humming. His hands gripped your waist, guiding you gently into his lap. He breathed you in like you were the cure to whatever was burning through him.

"Clark..." you warned softly, even as you gave in.

"I'm fine," he murmured against your lips. "I promise. I just need you."

You could feel the truth in it — in the way his hands trembled slightly, not from weakness, but from want. From relief. From the ache he'd been carrying all day, not just in his body, but in his chest.

What started as comfort had turned into something else — something hot and slow and tangled under the blankets, with fever-warmed skin and deep, grounding kisses. He pulled you closer, held you tighter, like maybe this was the only medicine that mattered.

And in that moment, you weren't worried about colds or chaos or chores. Just him. Just this. The soft, breathy sounds between kisses, the rough edges of his voice saying your name, the steady hum of connection crackling between your bodies like electricity waiting to catch.

Clark's kiss then deepened, his hand sliding under your shirt with a warmth that made you shiver, despite the heat radiating from his skin. Fevered or not, there was nothing weak about the way he pulled you closer, like every inch of space between you was an offense he needed to correct.

You straddled his lap fully now, hands gripping his shoulders for balance, his hoodie soft under your fingers. His hands were roaming — reverent, familiar, but hungry — trailing down your back, under your waistband, pulling you flush against him.

"You're burning up," you whispered against his mouth, half a tease, half a concern.

"Not sick," he breathed, lips ghosting along your jaw, your throat, your collarbone. "Just want you."

And god, did he mean it. He kissed you like it was the first time, like he'd missed you for years even though you'd been beside him all day. His lips were hot and slightly chapped, and you didn't care. His fingers pushed your shirt up higher, and you raised your arms just long enough to let him tug it off. The blanket slipped away, leaving the two of you tangled in heat and breath and nothing else.

You could feel how much he wanted you — hard and needy beneath you — and when your hips shifted, drawing a low groan from deep in his throat, it lit something electric between your ribs.

He gripped your waist and rolled his hips up slowly, deliberately. You sucked in a breath.

"You sure?" you asked, grounding yourself for a moment, looking into his eyes.

Clark's gaze locked with yours — glassy, intense, but steady. "I've never been more sure of anything."

You kissed him again — rougher this time — and he answered with equal urgency, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs as he shifted beneath you. You could feel the tension in his body, the ache, the way he was holding back just enough to stay gentle — but only just.

"Bedroom?" you murmured between kisses.

He didn't answer with words. He stood, lifting you easily with one arm around your back and the other under your thighs, making you gasp as he carried you like you weighed nothing. Fever and all, he was still him.

You pressed your face into his neck, laughing breathlessly as he carried you down the hall.

"Clark, you're supposed to be resting."

He kicked the bedroom door open. "I'll sleep after."

The moment you hit the mattress, his body was over yours — warm, solid, flushed with desire and something deeper. He didn't rush. He undressed you with his mouth more than his hands — kissing, licking, biting lightly down your chest, your stomach, your hipbones — like he was committing every inch of you to memory all over again.

When he finally pushed into you, it wasn't rushed — it was deliberate, almost reverent. He sank into you slowly, the stretch and slide sending a shudder rippling through your entire body. The world narrowed to the feeling of him filling you completely, deeply, a perfect, grounding rhythm that made your spine arch and your fingers clutch at his back, desperate for more.

The heat between you was staggering — not just the natural fever of bodies colliding, but something deeper, something burning and frantic and sacred all at once. His skin was almost unbearably hot against yours, slick with effort, his muscles trembling as he fought to keep his control.

Your name broke from your lips in a ragged whisper — once, twice, and then over and over again, like a prayer you couldn't stop offering. Every deep roll of his hips pulled another breathless sound from you, every grind closer to the edge, yet still he moved carefully, thoughtfully, as if memorizing every gasp, every flutter of your heart against his chest.

He leaned down until his forehead rested against yours, his breath stuttering unevenly across your lips, his lashes clumping from sweat. His eyes — blown wide, dark with need and something achingly tender — locked onto yours as if you were the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

"I love you," he rasped, the words torn from somewhere deep inside him, groaned right into your mouth like a vow he needed you to feel as much as hear.

You grabbed his face between your hands and pulled him into a bruising kiss, pouring all your urgency, all your need, into him. "Then show me," you whispered against his lips, daring him, challenging him.

And he did.

Again and again — harder, deeper, each thrust more desperate than the last, as if he could carve the words into your skin with the way he moved inside you. You lost yourself in him, in the burning crash of pleasure, in the broken sounds he made as he unraveled right alongside you. Together, you fell — into the heat, into the love, into the place where nothing else existed but the two of you, tangled and gasping, holding on for dear life.

THE next morning, sunlight crept in slow and golden through the bedroom windows, pooling across the tangled mess of sheets, limbs, and scattered clothes on the floor. Your body ached in the best way — the kind of ache that came from being thoroughly loved, multiple times, in ways that completely ignored the fact that one of you had been sick just twelve hours ago.

Clark was still sprawled beside you, bare-chested, blanket barely covering his hips, hair even more chaotic than yesterday — and somehow, impossibly, he looked smug. He stretched, yawned, then rolled onto his side and looked at you with a sleepy grin.

"Morning," he said, voice still gravelly but noticeably less congested.

You raised an eyebrow. "Well, someone's immune system seems to have made a miraculous overnight recovery."

He gave you a lazy shrug and leaned in to press a kiss to your shoulder. "Must've been all that... therapeutic physical contact."

"Oh, that's what we're calling it now?" you said, laughing as you rolled onto your back.

He grinned, full mischief now. "Hey, I'm feeling great. Like I could bench-press a tractor and then write a Pulitzer-winning article about it."

You looked at him, deadpan. "Clark, you sneezed directly into my hair last night."

He winced. "That was... accidental. And deeply unfortunate."

You mock-glared. "You're lucky you're hot."

"Lucky?" he said, leaning over and nuzzling your neck. "Babe, you were the one begging for round two."

"I was coerced by Kryptonian abs and a tragic man-cold. There was sympathy involved."

Clark snorted and dropped back onto the pillow dramatically. "Unbelievable. I pour my heart into a passionate night of healing, and all I get is slander."

You smirked and rolled on top of him, straddling his hips, palms flat on his chest.

"Oh, I didn't say it wasn't amazing," you said, dragging your hands slowly down his stomach. "I'm just saying — if I wake up with the flu tomorrow, you're making me soup and watching five hours of trashy reality TV without complaining."

Clark groaned like you'd asked him to fly into the sun. "Five hours?"

"Minimum. And I get full control of the remote."

He squinted at you, then sighed in defeat. "You really know how to keep a man humble."

You leaned down and kissed him, slow and teasing. "Someone's gotta keep you in check."

He grinned against your lips. "Well then, I guess I'll just have to make you sick enough to cash in on your nurse routine."

You pulled back and gave him the most betrayed look you could muster. "Clark Joseph Kent. Did you just imply you'd infect me on purpose?"

He laughed so hard he coughed — which turned into a sneeze — which turned into you smacking him in the chest with a pillow.

You grabbed the nearest pillow and smacked him square in the chest. "I knew you weren't fully recovered!"

"I regret nothing!" he wheezed, laughter already bubbling up again as he lunged for you.

You shrieked as he rolled, flipping you beneath him with ridiculous ease, pinning you under the blankets and grinning like he was twelve and had just won a tickle fight.

It was going to be a long morning — full of teasing and heat and probably a few more "therapeutic" activities.

And honestly? You wouldn't change a damn thing.

#x male reader #dc x male reader #dc #superman x male reader #clark kent x male reader #clark kent #superman #gay #clark kent imagine

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hyperlexichypatia · 23 hours ago

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That's such a great point that most adults absolutely do not want to hear -- often the issue isn't a naive young person being "manipulated" or "groomed" or "taken advantage of"; it's a young person acting in completely rational self-interest making the best decisions available to them given their circumstances. Because obviously the solution is systemic legal, economic, and cultural change so that young people can have autonomy and resources without having to rely on exploitative circumstances, but since that doesn't exist (yet), people have to do what they have to do.

I will say that a mistake I have often seen young people in that situation make, is that they will start out doing a clear-eyed, rational-self-interest, transactional arrangement, but then end up convincing themselves that the person extracting value from them actually loves and cares about them.

So I guess to answer your question, what advice I would give such a young person, it would be: By all means, do what you have to do. I won't judge you for it. But please remember: Your boss is not your friend, your landlord is not your friend, and the person you're sleeping with in rational self-interest does not love you.

Okay, here's my criticism of this post I keep seeing -- and no, it's not what you think. I know, my longtime followers who know the kinds of things I post about a lot are probably thinking, "Oh, I know what their objection is going to be. It's going to be that 18-19 year olds are adults who can date older partners if they choose to." But no, that's not it this time! Yes, I do believe it's fine for young adults to date older adults if they choose to (and am accordingly rolling my eyes at all the "This should go up to 25!" comments in the notes), but. That's not my issue here. In fact, precisely because I believe that young adults dating older adults is morally neutral, I'm not at all concerned about the efficacy of the messaging against it. My concern is that underage minors being in sexual/romantic relationships with adults is actually harmful and dangerous, and therefore young people actually should be warned against it, and this is not an effective warning.

Fellow old people, do y'all remember being 14? At all? Would you have found this warning effective and compelling at that age?

I for sure would not! I did not! Quite the opposite!

Put yourself in the young person's position here. You have no rights. You're treated as someone with no agency. Your parents, teachers, government, and society as a whole treats you as some combination of "nuisance," "ticking time bomb," and "unthinking blob." Developmentally, you're at a phase of life when you should be transitioning to a more adult role, but everyone around you demonizes you for that desire. All your thoughts, feelings, and opinions are dismissed as the inconsequential ravings of Just A Dumb Kid Who Doesn't Know Any Better. You meet someone who treats you with basic human politeness, tells you that he likes you and that you're mature, actually treats you like you have two brain cells to rub together. Of course you're going to be drawn to him. And then when other adults warn you that obviously of course he doesn't really like you, that's impossible, of course you're not really mature, no one could possibly see you that way; actually you're naive and incapable of making your own decisions, and the way your parents/teachers/society treat you is completely justified. Are you going to heed those warnings?

Why are adults absolutely constitutionally incapable of giving good, necessary advice to teenagers without fucking insulting them in the process? Of course teenagers don't listen to it! Why would anyone??

"Oh, well, of course teenagers don't listen, because they're stubborn, and immature, and biologically determined to make bad decisions, which is all the more reason they need to be controlled," say adults, completely oblivious to the actual problem.

When I was a teenager, the big moral panic at the time was teen pregnancy, and we were all inundated with the least effective cautionary tales in the world: "If you get pregnant as a teen, you'll have to leave your parents' care and function as an adult!" Which left every girl who'd intentionally gotten pregnant for the explicit purpose of escaping her abusive parents saying "Yeah, that was the goal." And every girl who was looking for a way of escaping her abusive parents to think "What a great idea!" Today the big moral panic is older partners, but if the appeal of an older partner is that he treats you like someone capable of making your own decisions, why would you be persuaded by a counterargument of "Don't listen to him, of course you're not capable of making your own decisions!"?

Again. I'm saying this because I agree that adults dating minors is a bad thing and that minors should be warned against it. EFFECTIVELY.

That said, this is my advice to any 17-or-younger person being pursued by an 18+-year-old partner: Listen. You deserve so much better than the way society treats you. You deserve to be taken seriously. You deserve to make your own decisions in life. You have a mind of your own, and people should recognize that instead of treating your pesky "free will" as a personal affront or an inconvenient glitch. You can and should think for yourself. You deserve, and I hope you have, relationships with older people who validate those truths about you. However. You are still legally and materially powerless. I don't have to tell you that. You live it every day. Someone older than you -- and therefore, inherently, legally, more powerful than you -- should not be trying to extract things from you. Money, sex, unpaid labor, anything of value. Someone more powerful than you who truly values you, values your friendship, values you as a person, will be mindful of your status and not try to extract anything from you. Cross-age friendships are good. Older people can and should genuinely like and appreciate you, and you can and should genuinely like and appreciate them. But if they try to extract anything from you, run away.

#ageism #youth rights #youthlib

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shinoko-oshi · 2 days ago

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Every Saturday - Simon Riley x female reader

Tags - comfort, therapist x patient, eventual romance/smut

He didn’t expect much from therapy, certainly not the easy conversations, the warm smiles, or the quiet way you made the weight on his chest feel lighter. Healing was never part of the plan, but neither was falling for you.

master list - chapter one

Originally, Simon didn't want a therapist. Didn't think he needed one. Didn't think talking about things would fix anything when the damage already ran down to the bone.

But Price had practically forced his hand— either he went to therapy once a week, every Saturday, or he was looking at months of mandatory leave. No in-between.

That was how Simon ended up sitting stiffly in a leather chair that felt too cold, too polished, offering no comfort. It didn't sink under his weight the way it should've. It stayed firm, If anything, it felt more like interrogation room. One wrong move and the walls might start closing in.

"How have you been?" you smiled, voice sweet and dewy like honey.

Yet Simon hesitated, shifting slightly in the chair that squeaked faintly under him. Taking out enemies had always come to him like second nature. Swift and clean. Talking though? Small talk, any talk? That was like pulling teeth. Like walking barefoot over glass.

"Good," he replied gruffly.

You continued to ask a few more questions. Probing lightly.

He continued to answer with dry, one worded responses. Vague enough to reveal nothing, flat enough to discourage curiosity. Eventually leading to a sigh escaping your lip. Quiet but heavy enough that it pulled his gaze upward, just for a second.

"Look, Simon. We have to talk—" you started, gentle but he knew what you were hinting at.

"I can't- I just- I'm not—" he snapped before he could stop himself, frustration bleeding out in broken words. His hands curled tighter around the leather arms of the chair, knuckles straining bone white under the pressure.

The air around him felt too thick, clinging heavy to his skin like a second unwanted layer.

He could already see where this was heading.

Knew the minefield you were guiding him toward, no matter how careful you made your voice.

The elephant or rather, elephants in the room.

Starting with the wreckage of his childhood, damage he carried like the blood in his body, stitched into him so deep it warped the way he breathed. Trailing all the way up to the blood-soaked memories of what Roda did to him and what he did to survive. Memories darker than the dead of night, when even the moon didn't dare shine.

"We don't have to talk about anything you don't want to," you said calmly. Like you were used to talking people back from cliffs. Your voice was the first thing in the room that didn't feel cold.

"How about we just start with how your week's been?"

Simon nodded stiffly. Fine. He could do that.

Maybe if he dragged it out long enough, stretched every word heavy and slow, he could burn the half hour down without you digging too deep at any the landmines buried inside him.

"I went to the grocery store on Wednesday," he started, after clearing his throat. "Stayed home the next day. Worked out a little. Drank some tea. Took Riley on a walk the next morning."

You nodded along as you listened, not even stopping him to ask who Riley was.

You just sat back, sipping from your Garfield mug— the one Simon thought should've been thrown straight into a fire. The bright orange cartoon face grinning at him mockingly, almost like it knew how badly he hated being there.

He still couldn't figure out why anyone would spend money on something so hideous, but he supposed that was your problem, not his.

The conversation lulled and silence stretched thin between you when Simon ran out of words to say. He stared down at the beige looking carpet trying to lose himself in the shitty texture of it.

Maybe if he sat still enough, the clock would burn out on its own.

But you leaned forward, elbows on your knees, irritatingly persisted, still digging without a shovel.

"Tell me more about going to the grocery store."

Simon blinked at you like you'd just asked him to recount the meaning of life. Dumbfounded. The hell was there to say? He went in. Bought shit. Left.

You seemed to catch the look he threw, because you quickly clarified what you meant before he could follow his look up by abruptly leaving.

"What did you buy? Why were you there?"

He huffed under his breath.

"Tea. Chamomile tea. I was out, and some dog treats. For Riley."

You gave a tiny nod showing you were still listening, mentally checking off the question of who Riley was without saying it out loud.

"You like tea?" You smiled.

"I drink it." he muttered dryly. Three syllable. Just enough to make it a conversation by technicality.

He could've said more. Could've mentioned the brand, the weather that day, the smell of the shop aisles. Could've lied about being a fucking connoisseur just to fill space. But he didn't care enough to feed it.

"I'm more of a coffee person," you chuckled lightly, gesturing to your mug with a quick tilt of your hand. The stupid cartoon cat leering at him again. He didn't laugh, didn't even offer a quick grin at your attempted joke, but he caught the way your nose crinkled when you smiled, the way you tried to lighten the air without forcing it. Meanwhile he only seemed to darken it.

You sneaked a quick glance at your watch before looking up back at him.

4:34 PM.

"Oh, would you look at that. Time's up," you said with a soft smile, setting your mug down carefully.

Though before you could even get the rest of your words out, Simon was already pushing up out of the chair, practically halfway to the door. Big hands curling around the handle like it was his escape hatch.

"Oh, wait— are you free next week around four?" you called out, a little breathless from how quick he'd moved.

"For the next session.” you added.

He would’ve liked to say no. Would've rather sat around watching paint dry, scraping the walls bare with his nails just for something to do, than park his arse in that stiff leather chair again. Would've preferred getting shot at or standing in the pissing rain during a six hour stakeout. Anything but sitting there like an exhibit under your too cheerful for your own good eyes.

But eventually, with a heavy, begrudging huff, the words clawed their way out of him.

"Yeah. That'll do," he muttered gruffly before slipping out the door, the soft click of it closing sounding louder than it should've.

It looked like he couldn't wait to leave. And he couldn't, he had practically bolted, shoulders stiff, steps a little too fast for a man who prided himself on patience.

But as he made his way down the empty hallway, he huffed, glad you were at least annoying on a level he could tolerate.

Maybe I read it too much, but i dont really like how this first chapter turned but omg I have so many ideas for this fanfic ^^

#fanfic #ghost cod #call of duty #simon ghost riley #one shot #simon riley #simon riley headcanons #cod fanfic #simon riley fanfic #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simom riley x reader #simon ghost smut #smut #fluff #faniction #ao3 fanfic #cod fic #cod x reader

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bueckersleftbraid · 3 days ago

Text

”— The Weight of Staying

Part 2

WC: 5.2k

singer/songwriter!azzi x nylibertyplayer!paige

warnings: none, jst fluff again!

Some people are bad at letting go. Others are even worse at walking away for good. Paige and Azzi have always been a little bit of both.

authors note —> hi loves, tysm for all of the love on the first part!! I would love if you guys would send some asks about how you want this series to go. Maybe some angst because I’m not very creative when it come to that lol 🫣 anyways, hope you love this!!

The next morning, Azzi woke to the smell of coffee and the soft sound of Paige humming SZA’s Go Ginaoff-key from the kitchen.

For a few blissful seconds, she forgot the world outside the apartment existed—the deadlines, the pressure, the questions she didn’t know how to answer. It was just her and Paige and the hazy morning light stretching across the hardwood floors.

She stretched lazily, the sweatshirt she had borrowed from Paige riding up slightly as she sat up and shuffled into the kitchen. Paige glanced over her shoulder and smiled, bright and sleepy and so achingly beautiful it made Azzi’s chest tighten.

"Morning, rockstar," Paige teased, holding out a mug. Not just any mug— Azzi’s mug. Her designated, favorite, mug— which just happened to be a gift from Paige. Because, of course it was. Paige had always been fond of giving little gifts to the brunette. Whether it was for a small accomplishment of for no reason at all, she loved to spoil her. Clothes, jewelry, shoes— like Azzi’s favorite Uggs—, concert tickets, literally everything and anything the girl could want.

Azzi padded over, taking the mug gratefully. Their fingers brushed, and something wordless passed between them—a kind of easy warmth that didn’t feel fragile anymore.

They sipped their coffees in companionable silence, leaning against opposite sides of the kitchen counter. Paige’s gaze flicked to Azzi’s face more than once, like she was working up to something.

Finally, she set her mug down with a soft clink.

"So... I have to go to LA tomorrow," she said, voice careful. "Just for a few days. For the shoot."

Azzi nodded, pretending she didn’t feel a tiny pang at the thought of Paige leaving again. She took another sip of her coffee, hiding her face behind the rim.

Paige hesitated, then pushed forward.

"I want you to come with me."

Azzi blinked, the words of surprise getting caught in her throat.

Paige rushed to fill the space. "I mean—only if you want to. I just thought... you could use a break, you know? Get out of the city for a little. Clear your head. And selfishly, I—I’d just like you there."

Azzi set her mug down slowly, studying Paige.

It wasn’t like Paige to ask for things like this. To want her close so openly, without hiding it behind a joke or a shrug. This was… new. Usually Paige going a way for a few days was never a big deal, until she didn’t text when she got home. And it came to Azzi reaching out a week later for them to hang out. So the ask sparked a feeling of butterflies in Azzi’s stomach— a little ray of hope for what was growing between the two.

"You sure?" Azzi asked quietly.

Paige laughed, short and soft. "I’m pretty sure I’ve never been more sure about anything."

Azzi’s heart gave a little stutter again, but she kept her voice steady.

"Okay," she said, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "I’ll come."

Paige’s whole face lit up— like Azzi had just agreed to more than a trip, to something deeper and unnamed.

"Good," Paige said, stepping closer, her fingers brushing Azzi’s hip. "You deserve a little sun anyway."

Azzi tilted her head. She did miss California, despite being there less than 2 weeks ago. The west coast had always felt like home to her after she attended UCLA. The palm tress and sound of ocean waves never comparing to the bustling sounds of New York. Paige always told her it was there “invisible string theory” because Azzi had attended the final four game in which UConn beat UCLA during Paige’s senior season. Azzi would just smile and nod, always saying something like, “Your on tiktok way too much P.”

"You just want someone to carry your coffee orders all over set." Azzi teased, though she would be fully willing to do that because, well, it’s Paige.

Paige grinned. "Busted. But also... I just want you there. With me."

The sincerity in her voice knocked the air out of Azzi’s lungs. She reached for Paige without thinking, curling her hands into the soft cotton of her sweatshirt, letting herself be pulled into a slow, sleepy kiss that tasted like coffee and promises.

____

Azzi stood in the middle of Paige’s bedroom, a half-zipped suitcase open on the bed, her fingers tangled in the hem of a t-shirt she wasn’t sure she should bring.

"This is ridiculous," she muttered, half to herself.

Across the room, Paige was sitting cross-legged on the floor, a small pile of clothes growing beside her. She looked up, amused.

"You’ve packed for way bigger trips," Paige pointed out, tossing a hoodie over her shoulder into her own suitcase without a second thought.

Azzi shot her a look. "Yeah, but usually I know what I’m packing for. What does ‘a few days in LA’ even mean?"

Paige grinned. "It means sunshine, a photo shoot that’s gonna take like, three hours tops, and then a lot of us doing absolutely nothing."

Azzi huffed, turning back to the suitcase. "So I need... what? Cute casual? Lazy casual? Fancy casual?"

Paige pushed up off the floor and crossed the room to stand beside her. She plucked the t-shirt from Azzi’s hands and tossed it onto the growing pile.

"Bring stuff you can be comfortable in. And stuff you wouldn't mind me stealing."

Azzi raised an eyebrow. "Stealing?"

Paige gave her a very unrepentant look. "Sharing. Borrowing. Whatever."

Azzi laughed under her breath, feeling some of the tension leak out of her shoulders. "You’re the worst."

"You love it," Paige said easily, reaching into Azzi’s suitcase and pulling out a soft gray Eric Emanuel sweatshirt. She held it up against herself with a mock-serious expression. "This one’s definitely coming."

Azzi watched her, something warm and weightless blooming in her chest. The sight of Paige wearing her clothes—like it was the most natural thing in the world—made something deep inside her settle.

"You can’t just pick all my favorites," Azzi protested half-heartedly.

Paige tossed the sweatshirt into her own pile. "Watch me."

Azzi shook her head, smiling despite herself. She moved to her own closet, pulling down a couple of pairs of jeans, a few tank tops, a sundress she hadn’t worn in forever.

Behind her, she heard Paige rummaging through the dresser, the sound of zippers and folded fabric filling the room in a lazy, domestic rhythm. "Bring that striped shirt," Paige called over her shoulder. "The blue one. I like you in that."

Azzi froze for half a second, her fingers brushing over the shirt in question. It was such a Paige thing to say—casual, unguarded, and somehow more intimate than anything else. She swallowed around the lump in her throat and added it to her pile without a word.

By the time they finished, there was a chaotic kind of order to it all: two half-stuffed suitcases, a shared backpack for the plane, and a tangle of clothes they’d probably end up swapping back and forth the entire trip.

Paige flopped onto the bed dramatically, arms spread wide. "I’m exhausted," she groaned. "We deserve snacks."

Azzi laughed, tugging the zipper closed on her suitcase and collapsing beside her. Their shoulders bumped. "You realize we haven’t even left yet," she teased.

Paige turned her head, her smile lazy and warm. "Yeah. But traveling with you already feels like an adventure."

Azzi snorted, but her cheeks flushed anyway. "God, you're corny," she said, nudging Paige’s foot with her own.

Paige caught her ankle, tugging playfully. "You like it."

Azzi didn’t deny it.

Didn’t even try.

Instead, she reached over and twined their pinkies together, the simple touch grounding and sweet.

"Yeah," Azzi said softly, her heart thudding steady and sure in her chest. "I really do."

____

The car hummed beneath them, a low, steady vibration that made everything feel suspended somehow— like they were floating between the life they were leaving behind and the one waiting for them on the other coast.

Paige was driving, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on the console between them, her fingers drumming out a soft, absentminded rhythm. She wore a navy sweatshirt Azzi recognized as her own—the sleeves pushed up to her elbows, the collar stretched just enough to hang loose at the neck.

Azzi sat sideways in the passenger seat, legs folded up beneath her, the city blurring past the window.

For a while, they didn’t talk. They didn’t have to. The silence between them was the good kind— full and easy, stitched together by the soft buzz of the radio and the occasional tap of Paige’s fingers against the steering wheel. It wasn’t until they hit the highway, the skyline growing smaller in the rearview mirror, that Paige spoke.

"So," she said, her voice casual, but edged with a kind of quiet excitement. "Besides the shoot, what do you wanna do while we’re out there?"

Azzi glanced over at her, smiling. "You mean besides sleep in a real bed, eat too much food, and pretend the world doesn’t exist?"

Paige laughed, that low, warm sound that always made Azzi’s chest ache a little. "Exactly that. But also... other stuff."

Azzi tipped her head back against the seat, thinking.

"I wanna see the beach," she said after a minute. "Like, a real one. Not the sad, gray ones we have here."

Paige grinned. "Venice? Malibu?"

Azzi shrugged. "You pick, it’s your trip."

Paige made a thoughtful noise. "We’ll do both."

Azzi smiled, a small, private thing. "Okay."

Paige shifted, glancing at her quickly before turning her eyes back to the road. "What else?"

Azzi bit her lip, considering.

"Maybe... just walk around?" she said. "Get coffee. Go somewhere nobody cares who we are."

Paige’s fingers twitched slightly on the console, like she wanted to reach for her.

"Yeah," she said quietly. "We can do that."

They drove a little further in silence, the city giving way to long stretches of highway, the sky growing darker by degrees. Azzi watched the way the passing streetlights caught on Paige’s profile— the strong line of her jaw, the soft set of her mouth, the little furrow between her brows when she was thinking.

"I wanna be stupid," Azzi said suddenly.

Paige blinked, glancing at her. "Stupid?"

Azzi nodded, smiling faintly. "Like... take dumb tourist photos. Eat ice cream for dinner. Spend too much money on something ridiculous."

Paige’s mouth curved into a slow, delighted smile. "You got it."

Azzi laughed under her breath, feeling lighter than she had in weeks.

"And you?" she asked, turning the question around. "What do you wanna do?"

Paige shrugged one shoulder, casual. But her voice was steady when she said, "Anything, as long as it’s with you."

Azzi felt her heart stutter painfully, a full, dizzy ache blooming in her chest. She reached over without thinking, resting her hand lightly over Paige’s on the console. Paige turned her palm up instantly, threading their fingers together. They didn’t say anything else for a while. They didn’t need to. Outside the windows, the world kept turning. Inside the car, it felt like they were building something all their own — small, private, indestructible. Azzi squeezed Paige’s hand once, gentle. Paige squeezed back. And the city disappeared behind them.

____

The airport was its own strange kind of world — too bright, too loud, the air too cold even though it was spring outside. Azzi adjusted the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder, blinking against the fluorescent lights as she and Paige made their way through security. Paige was right beside her, their arms brushing occasionally, small touches that felt deliberate in the chaos.

They moved through it all like a little orbit of two — checking bags, flashing passports, slipping off shoes and jackets — and somehow, it felt easy. Familiar.

When they got through security, Paige glanced over, her mouth tugging into a half-smile.

"You good?" she asked.

Azzi nodded, but she must not have been very convincing because Paige shifted her bag to her other shoulder and leaned in a little closer, her voice lower now.

"We've got like an hour before boarding," Paige said. "Wanna find somewhere to sit?"

Azzi exhaled, a breath she didn’t realize she'd been holding. "Yeah. That sounds good."

They wandered until they found a quieter stretch of terminal, tucked away by a set of big floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the tarmac. Paige dropped into one of the chairs, sprawling out with the kind of ease that made Azzi smile despite herself. Azzi slid into the seat next to her, close enough that their knees brushed. Outside, planes taxied slowly across the runways, their lights blinking against the early evening sky. Everything felt washed in that strange, in-between airport time — not quite day, not quite night.

Paige leaned her head back against the seat and turned toward her.

"You know," she said, voice soft, "this is your first real vacation in how long?"

Azzi let out a dry laugh. "Define 'real.'"

Paige nudged her knee lightly with her own. "One where you're not pretending you’re okay the whole time while you’re forced to, you know, preform.”

Azzi went quiet, staring out at the planes for a long moment.

Then she smiled, small and a little broken around the edges. "Yeah," she said. "First in a while."

Paige didn’t push, didn’t prod. She just nudged her again, gentler this time. "You deserve it."

Azzi turned to look at her. Paige was already looking back — steady, certain, like she was saying something much bigger than just you deserve a break.

Azzi felt herself soften, all the way through.

"Thanks," she said, voice thick.

They sat there like that for a while, the steady pulse of the airport all around them, Paige’s presence a steady anchor at her side.

Eventually, Paige shifted, pulling her phone out of her sweatshirt pocket.

"I made a list," she said, suddenly a little sheepish.

Azzi raised an eyebrow. "A list?"

Paige nodded, tapping her screen. "Of things we could do. In LA. Just... ideas."

She held the phone out, and Azzi took it, scrolling slowly. Some of the ideas they had spoken on earlier, but some were new.

Beach day (obviously)

Late-night diner run

Take dumb pictures at tourist traps (like Az wants)

Rent bikes and ride along the beach

Find the best breakfast burrito in the city

Watch a movie outside (rooftop cinema?)

Sunset somewhere high up (Mulholland?)

Vintage shopping (Azzi’s gonna hate this)

Buy matching ugly sunglasses

Dance party in the hotel room if we get bored

Azzi laughed, her heart feeling impossibly full. "This is adorable," she said, handing the phone back.

Paige shrugged, cheeks pink. "Figured we needed a plan. In case you got overwhelmed. Or… I did."

Azzi reached over, tugging lightly at the sleeve of Paige’s sweatshirt. "I like your kind of planning," she said.

Paige’s mouth curved into a lopsided smile — a smile that felt private, just for her.

They were still smiling at each other when the announcement crackled over the speakers, calling for their boarding group.

Paige stood and offered her hand without hesitation.

Azzi didn’t even think twice before slipping her fingers into Paige’s.

Together, they walked toward the gate, their matching sneakers squeaking a little against the glossy floor. Neither of them let go.

____

The plane had just leveled off, that soft, almost unnoticeable shift where the pressure in Azzi’s chest eased and the city below disappeared into a blanket of clouds.

Azzi tugged her sweatshirt tighter around herself and leaned against the window, blinking slowly at the endless stretch of blue and white outside. The hum of the engines filled the cabin, low and steady, like white noise. Paige was next to her — aisle seat, long legs folded awkwardly in the cramped space — flipping idly through the in-flight magazine with a look of deep boredom.

"You know they haven’t updated those magazines since like 2018, right?" Azzi teased, her voice still soft from the altitude.

Paige smirked without looking up. "I'm searching for hidden treasure. Leave me be."

Azzi smiled to herself, turning her gaze back to the clouds. For a while, they just sat there, the quiet between them easy and warm.

Then Paige shifted in her seat, nudging Azzi lightly with her elbow.

"Hey," she said, dropping the magazine onto the tray table with a thud. "You went to UCLA, right?"

Azzi blinked, a little surprised. "Yeah. For undergrad."

Paige smiled, like she already knew but wanted to hear her say it anyway. "Anything you wanna do while we're out there? Stuff you miss?"

Azzi let her head fall back against the seat, thinking.

"I don’t know," she said after a moment. "It's weird. Feels like a lifetime ago."

Paige turned toward her a little, legs bumping gently against Azzi’s under the tray table. “I don't mind," she said. "If you wanna be nostalgic."

Azzi let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh.

"Okay," she said, shutting her eyes for a second. "There’s this taco truck. Near campus. Best carne asada I've ever had. And there’s a bookstore I used to live in when I was too broke to buy anything — the guy who owned it would let me sit in the aisles for hours."

Paige’s mouth pulled into a small smile. "That sounds perfect."

"And…" Azzi hesitated, then opened her eyes again. "I'd kinda wanna see the ocean again. Real ocean. Not like... the weird muddy beaches up here— like we talked about earlier.”

Paige chuckled, low and fond. "Hey, don't insult my muddy beaches."

Azzi smiled, a little shy now.

"There’s this spot," she said, voice dropping like it was a secret. "North of Santa Monica. Little hidden cliff with all these wildflowers. You can sit right on the edge and just—watch the waves crash. I know you said Malibu or whatever but if we want something more quiet.”

Paige leaned her cheek against the seatback, studying her. “Sounds perfect.”

After a beat she spoke again, "You’re really a softie, huh," she said, but it came out so gentle Azzi didn't even think to bristle.

"Don’t tell anyone," Azzi muttered, grinning despite herself.

Paige mimed zipping her lips shut, her expression mock-solemn."Sworn to secrecy."

Azzi watched her, heart tugging strangely in her chest.

There was something about Paige like this — a little rumpled from travel, eyes crinkled at the corners from smiling, denim jacket slung loosely over her hoodie — that made her feel like she could tell her anything.

"I used to sit out there and dream about everything I thought I was gonna do," Azzi said quietly, surprising even herself with the admission.

Paige didn’t interrupt. She just shifted a little closer, like she was making room for whatever Azzi needed to say.

"I thought I'd… I don’t know. Change the world. Be fearless. Be important."

Azzi huffed a breath, half a laugh. "Then real life happens and you realize how much just surviving takes out of you."

The hum of the plane filled the space between them. Outside, the clouds rolled endlessly on. Paige reached over, not dramatically, not even looking, just finding Azzi’s hand on the armrest and folding her fingers around it.

"You are important," she said, so matter-of-fact it made Azzi's throat ache.

Azzi looked down at their hands, then up at Paige.

And there it was again — that quiet certainty Paige wore like armor, the belief she never hesitated to offer Azzi, even when Azzi didn’t know how to believe it herself.

"Thanks," Azzi whispered, squeezing her hand back.

They stayed like that for a long time, fingers intertwined, the steady beat of the engines all around them. When Azzi finally drifted off to sleep, her head tipping lightly against Paige’s shoulder somewhere over the desert, Paige didn’t move. She just let her stay there, her thumb brushing slow, thoughtless circles against Azzi’s knuckles. Outside the window, the sun was beginning its slow, golden descent toward the horizon. And for the first time in a long time, everything felt like it was exactly where it was supposed to be.

____

Azzi woke up to the subtle jolt of the landing gear deploying and the soft crackle of the captain’s voice over the intercom. She blinked blearily, momentarily disoriented. The plane dipped, angling itself toward the glittering sprawl of Los Angeles, laid out like a giant, endless grid beneath the haze of late afternoon light. Paige was still next to her, her body turned slightly toward Azzi like she'd been guarding her space while she slept. She was reading something on her phone, one earbud tucked in, the other left dangling in case Azzi needed her.

Azzi stretched a little, her joints stiff from sleeping in such a cramped space.

Paige noticed immediately, pulling her earbud out and smiling at her — that slow, familiar smile that made Azzi feel like she was waking up somewhere safe.

"Hey, sleeping beauty," Paige teased softly. "We’re about to land."

Azzi rubbed at her eyes, yawning. "Sorry. I didn’t mean to knock out on you."

Paige shrugged, casual. "You needed it."

Outside the window, the plane dropped lower and lower, buildings sharpening into focus, palm trees swaying in neat little rows, pools glinting like tiny shards of glass in backyards below. The wheels hit the runway with a soft thud, and the brakes engaged, pressing them gently forward in their seats.

Azzi watched as the city rushed up to meet them — all of it sun-drenched and humming with a kind of restless energy she hadn't realized she'd missed. The seatbelt sign dinged off, and the cabin filled instantly with the rustle of people standing, stretching, reaching for bags.

Azzi stayed still for a moment longer, taking it all in — the familiar buzz of LAX, the smell of jet fuel and hot pavement, the excitement coiling low in her stomach.

Paige bumped her knee lightly under the tray table. "You ready, Cali girl?"

Azzi huffed a small laugh, standing up to grab her backpack from under the seat.

"God, I forgot how ugly this airport is," she said, wrinkling her nose affectionately.

Paige chuckled. "Yeah, definitely not the most glamorous welcome."

They shuffled into the slow-moving line down the aisle, Paige’s hand brushing against Azzi’s back in that absent, grounding way that made Azzi’s chest ache a little.

The air inside the jet bridge was thick and warm, heavy with that distinct L.A. heat — not humid, exactly, but dry and heavy, like the sunlight had weight. Azzi adjusted the strap of her bag over her shoulder, already peeling off her sweatshirt as they stepped into it.

Outside, beyond the wide airport windows, the sky was a blazing, endless blue, not a single cloud in sight. The palm trees swayed gently, impossibly tall and a little ridiculous against the concrete sprawl of terminals and highways. Azzi caught herself smiling.

Maybe it was stupid, but there was something about being here — back — that made her feel a little lighter, like she could breathe a little easier. LA always sort of had that effect on her, but the idea that these few days were just for her to enjoy it, made the feeling one hundred times better.

"Feels good, huh?" Paige said, watching her.

Azzi shrugged, but she couldn’t quite hide the small, quiet smile tugging at her mouth. "Yeah," she admitted.

They made their way toward baggage claim, the hum of the airport around them — rolling suitcases, announcements crackling overhead, kids chattering excitedly about Disneyland.

Paige bumped her shoulder lightly against Azzi’s. "We’ll get the bags, grab the rental, and then—" she wiggled her eyebrows exaggeratedly. "—hit In-N-Out?"

Azzi laughed, shaking her head. "You’re such a tourist."

Paige grinned unabashedly. "Hey, I have priorities."

They found their bags quickly — Paige’s worn black duffel and Azzi’s old, sticker-covered suitcase she’d had since college — and wheeled them toward the rental car shuttles, the hot pavement radiating up through their sneakers.

Azzi tipped her head back, feeling the sun warm her face. It was a small thing, but God, it felt good — this simple, stupid thing of being somewhere familiar with someone who felt like home.

Paige slung her arm casually around Azzi’s shoulders as they waited for the shuttle, squeezing her lightly.

"Welcome back," she murmured.

And even though the city was chaotic, overwhelming, too much in all the ways it had always been, Azzi found herself grinning.

The rental car smelled vaguely of plastic and industrial cleaner, but neither of them cared. It was a beat-up white Jeep — nothing fancy, but it had working air-conditioning and a sunroof, and Paige immediately declared it perfect.

Azzi just shook her head, amused, as they tossed their bags in the back.

Paige adjusted the seat, pulling a pair of sunglasses from the collar of her t-shirt. She looked maddeningly cool without even trying, the late afternoon sun glinting off her hair.

Azzi slid into the passenger seat, stretching her legs out with a satisfied sigh.

It had been a long flight. And a long year.

"This is still the worst airport layout in America," Azzi said, watching the tangle of lanes and honking cars as Paige carefully pulled into traffic.

"Hey, now," Paige teased. "Show some respect. This city gave you your degree."

Azzi snorted, resting her elbow against the window and letting the dry, golden breeze wash over her face. It felt like breathing in sunlight.

"Speaking of," Paige said as they merged onto the highway, "you gotta show me your old stomping grounds sometime while we’re here. UCLA tour, led by a very reluctant former student?"

Azzi laughed. "God. I’m not sure I even remember half of it. But sure. Only if we can hit up some real food spots too."

"Deal," Paige said, holding out her pinky finger dramatically as she drove.

Azzi grinned, hooking her pinky with Paige’s for a second before pulling back. The little gesture left her chest feeling strangely warm.

"First," Paige said, steering them off an exit, "we honor tradition."

Azzi blinked. "What?"

Paige pointed at a bright red-and-yellow sign coming into view.

"In-N-Out, baby."

Azzi groaned, half-laughing. "You are such a tourist."

"Embrace it," Paige said, unbothered. "Besides, you’re getting something too. You need to soak up some of that Cali nostalgia."

They rolled into the drive-thru line, which was predictably about a mile long. The scent of grilled onions and french fries hung heavy in the air, making Azzi’s stomach rumble.

"I forgot how good it smells," she admitted grudgingly, reading the tiny, simple menu pinned up on the side of the building.

Paige glanced at her, smirking. "Told you."

They ordered — two Double-Doubles, fries, two chocolate shakes because Paige insisted they "do it right" — and pulled into a shaded spot to eat.

Paige tore into her burger immediately, groaning around the first bite. Azzi tried to look unimpressed but she wasn’t fooling anyone. The first taste of the greasy, perfect burger made her hum quietly in pleasure.

Paige noticed and grinned like she’d won something.

"Tastes like college, right?" she said, still chewing.

Azzi nodded, mouth full. She swallowed and leaned her head back against the seat.

"God, I missed this."

They ate mostly in silence, windows down, the heavy smell of french fries and the warm, dry breeze filling the car.

It felt strangely sacred — like they were suspended in a little pocket of time where nothing bad could reach them.

After they finished, Paige wiped her hands on a napkin, grinning.

"Okay," she said, starting the car again. "Next stop: a sunset drive? You can pick the playlist."

Azzi felt herself smile without thinking. "Dangerous offer."

"I’m brave," Paige said seriously, pulling back onto the road.

The sun was starting to dip lower now, casting everything in a golden haze. Azzi let the warm air whip her hair around as they sped down the freeway, the city unrolling around them — endless and messy and alive. She glanced over at Paige, who was tapping the steering wheel in time with the music now pouring through the speakers — an old song Azzi loved but hadn’t heard in years. Something in her chest loosened, breathing easier.

They hit the freeway just as the sun was starting to sink lower in the sky, spilling molten gold across the landscape.

Paige had rolled all the windows down again, the wind rushing around them, loud and warm. She kept one hand loosely on the wheel, her other hand drumming lazily against her thigh.

Azzi scrolled through her phone, thoughtful.

Paige almost never gave up aux — it was kind of an unspoken thing between them. Paige was the one who always set the tone, picked the soundtrack. But now, Paige had just handed her the cord without thinking, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Azzi tucked that small, important detail somewhere deep inside her heart.

She picked something older— but a classic— Lauren Hills’ Ex-Factor. When the first chords started, Paige shot her a sideways smile, instantly approving.

Azzi sank lower into her seat, the breeze tugging at the ends of her hair. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the music and the light soak into her skin. The city blurred past — palm trees silhouetted against the orange sky, billboards and taco stands and rows of pastel houses flashing by. Everything felt slow and wide open at once.

"This feels fake," Azzi said after a few minutes, her voice soft.

Paige glanced at her, brow furrowing slightly. "Fake?"

Azzi smiled to herself. "Like... too perfect. Like a movie."

Paige’s mouth tilted up at one corner. "Guess that’s LA for you."

They drove in easy silence for a while, trading off songs. Azzi surprised herself by choosing songs she hadn’t listened to in years— songs that reminded her of old dorm rooms and beach days and walking home late at night with nothing but the stars overhead. Every once in a while, Paige would hum along under her breath, her fingers tapping on the wheel in time.

It felt... comfortable.

It felt like breathing with someone else's lungs and realizing you weren’t alone in it. Paige eventually took them up into the hills a little, winding roads that looked out over the whole sprawl of the city. They pulled off at a lookout point— nothing official, just a dusty patch of dirt at the side of the road where other cars were already scattered.

Paige turned the engine off but left the music playing, softer now.

They sat there for a long moment, staring out at the city stretched out below them — endless lights starting to flicker on, stitched into the earth like constellations.

Azzi tucked her knees up against the dashboard, wrapping her arms loosely around them.

"It's beautiful," she said quietly.

Paige didn’t say anything. Just reached over and gently hooked her pinky around Azzi’s again — that same small, almost reverent gesture she’d made earlier. Azzi smiled without looking away from the view, her heart thudding a little harder in her chest.

Yeah.

It really was.

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