#And what do i have to look forward to when its over ?

[randombush3]

te hacemos falta

alexia putellas x reader

prologue, que te quiero, busco lo de antes

summary: you wake up but you're not sure where

words: 4715

content warnings: bit of smut

notes: the end was written way before the beginning. i couldn't decide what to do with this for a while but it came to me in the shower earlier today so here we are, finally completed

there will have to be more parts to this because i'm not done yet 🙄

The duvet falls to the floor. 

Swathes of tanned skin spread over your smooth legs, encapsulating, suffocating. It’s good though, so good. And it’s exploration of somewhere familiar, crevasses that she knows, divots that you wish you did. Dimples where muscle tenses and relaxes and veins that throb at the sight of… this. Oh, how she has missed this. 

There’s a hunger in her eyes – desperate, ready. Her tongue is warm and wet as it slides down the valley of your breasts and your stomach and the apex of your thighs. She’s moaning, you’re moaning. It’s a cacophony of sound and pleasure and this might kill you, might just end it all, because is this what it used to be like? Blazing, fiery, passionate sex? 

She sucks and bites and kisses and you’ve never been at anyone’s mercy quite like how you are at hers, back arching, legs clamping tightly until blonde hair and stars are all you can see. Her breath sears and your skin must be branded: ‘Alexia, Alexia, Alexia’ it must say. The sound of your heartbeat pounds in your ears, louder than her name falling from your lips, louder than her appreciation that you are here and doing this. 

It’s better than it ever has been. And it’s building. Climbing, growing more intense. Her tongue swirls your clit and it’s almost enough, your hands gripping the sheets as though that will anchor you on your ascent to Heaven. You might be screaming. She’s making you scream. 

Your stomach drops as you go soaring through the sky. And then it’s gone.

“It’s a sex dream.” You look up, ignoring the heat of your cheeks, trying to remind yourself that you’re allowed to feel like this in therapy. “The same one, right?” 

“I wake up sweating.” 

Your therapist nods, her expression neutral and free of judgement, pen poised on her knee as she waits for your confession to settle, really making you sit in it. Then, she speaks, measured tone like always, “And when you wake up, what’s the first thing you feel?” 

Her question is gentle but purposeful. She is a deliberate woman. 

“Embarrassment, mostly.” She doesn’t quite buy it. “Sometimes I… get off? After?” 

“Are you asking me?” 

“It’s uncomfortable,” you fire back, defensively. “She’s in the next room to me. My daughter is in the same flat. I’m acting like a horny teenager.” 

“Sex is biological. Your body was accustomed to the regular hormone release, a stable sex life. You’re young and you were both in high-stress professions. Is it so absurd for you to crave it?” You shake your head, although her rhetoric is clear. “And as you’ve already said, you’re attracted to Alexia, memories or not.” 

“I’m not blind,” you protest. (Is it really a protest?) 

Your therapist nods again, considering your words with slight amusement. “Not blind,” she repeats. She inhales. “What about the feelings that come with that attraction? Are you angry with yourself for still wanting her, even if the memories aren’t there?” 

The leather sofa creaks as you shift in your seat. You briefly wonder how many people she has made want to die of discomfort in this office, but she’s pretty good, you’ll give her that. “It’s not anger,” you murmur, the tightness in your chest still constricting in its nameless fashion. “It’s… guilt, maybe? Frustration? She looks at me like I’m supposed to remember, like I’m supposed to love her the way she clearly still loves me. And I want to. God, I want to. But I feel like I’m trying to love a stranger.” 

She leans forwards slightly, eyes deep and gentle, subtly glancing at the clock above the door before refocusing on your face. “You said you still feel attracted to her. That’s not nothing. Desire can be a bridge – it is for many relationships.” 

You sigh, rubbing at your temples. Months have dulled the ache of your head, the physical pain of the accident now almost gone, but nothing seems to have stopped your insides from howling in anguish. It echoes in your emptiness. You’re not sure if that makes it worse. “It feels hollow. We wouldn’t have fucked for a while, not if I had Amaia – she would’ve been so young.” The clock ticks over another minute. “And she deserves more than just me physically. It would be failing. Her. Amaia.” The crack of your voice betrays the steadiness of your tone. 

“She’s not asking for perfection,” your therapist says carefully. “She’s asking for effort, for honest. And if she didn’t believe in you, she’d have left, wouldn’t she?” 

“She wouldn’t do that.” 

“She wouldn’t do that to you,” she corrects. 

That merits a pause. It’s true, probably. When you have concocted some kind of response, you shuffle your legs so that they are crossed, one over the other – a pose Alexia had claimed to be the signpost of being ‘lawyered’, shivering as she’d said it. “Every moment we try to connect, I mess it up. She’ll talk about something we did, some moment that was important to us, and I just sit there. Blank. It is only a matter of time until she gets fed up and leaves. She’s surely just patient.” 

“From what you have told me about Alexia, she is not a patient person,” she rebukes. The harshness of her voice is not explicit, more like the piercing shot of a pistol equipped with a silencer. It makes good contact. “Have you told her how this feels for you?” 

You don’t reply. 

“Alexia might be holding onto the version of you from before the accident, the person she remembers,” your therapist continues. “But she’s also here, now, with this version of you. That tells me she’s willing to rebuild, even if it’s from the ground up.” 

Fuck. “You have a point.” 

She smirks. “Of course I do.” 

…

Alexia sits at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee clasped tightly in her hands. The hum of the fridge does nothing to mask the rustling of your sheets, nor the music Amaia thinks is too quiet to be heard. No one is asleep, yet no one is together. She wants to scream. 

Her coffee has long since cooled, her last sip maybe even hours ago. Time is no longer real. Time has fucked her over and she’s really renounced it. 

The decorations are starting to peel their way off, the tree going brown, the batteries in the lights dying. Maybe the horror of Christmas will also be lost, and maybe that’s for the best; awkward gifts, dinners where inside jokes left you on the outside, alcohol doing nothing to jog your memories or ease you into making new ones. Amaia’s birthday also carried that same awkwardness, worse at night, when she had asked to be cuddled and you’d frozen the moment she had fallen asleep on you. 

Nights suck. 

Nights leave space for Alexia to remember everything you don’t, cold in a bed that isn’t hers, with no one there to hold her as tears spill out and make her feel fucking pathetic. She pretends not to notice, but Mapi’s texts get later and later each day, as though she has caught on to the worsening bags under her captain’s eyes and the dark swirl of her mind. 

And at night, under the covers, all Alexia can do is picture you. 

She’d felt the shift when you had come back from Bilbao. She’d seen your body tense – no stranger to its signals. It’s been a waiting game ever since. 

She suspects it has something to do with Amaia. Your responsibility is unfaltering, even if you seem to not recognise it, and it is reminiscent of the first time round, when Alexia had been refused sleepovers and late nights, working with quick makeouts in daylight and steamy kisses in the five minutes you’d allow her to pull over for on your way back home. “My daughter needs me more than you do,” you’d joke, batting her hands away, grinning at the whines she’d let out. “And someone needs to teach you how to wait.”

“So many women would jump at the chance to sleep with me,” would be her instantaneous response. She’d say it to your back, because you’d already be on your way out. 

Sex shouldn’t be on Alexia’s mind like this. She felt guilty about it then, and she feels even guiltier about it now. 

You’re attractive. Beautiful. Intelligent. You’re more than the sound you make when she’s pressed inside you just right. Or the swears you hiss when you’re returning the favour. 

You’re the words you say when you’re trying not to let Amaia down: careful, caring. And the look of support when Alexia is watching nothing ring a bell and wanting to die because of it. 

And you’re still you, if not set on different tracks with different thoughts and feelings and perspectives. 

You are still the woman she loves – which she knows and clings onto. And you’re braver than she is, because she would not have survived this situation. 

Alexia pictures you again, when she finally gets herself into bed, hand wandering down her sculpted body, jerking away at the slightest sound like she is not allowed to be doing this. She does it anyway. 

It’s a relief, a fleeting escape, and the only thing that doesn’t make her feel so fucking hollow. Briefly, the world hasn’t ended. Her fingers find familiar paths, mapped out by yours as she’d melt beneath your touch, and, for a moment, it isn’t her hand. It passes, and the pleasure is only a ghost of what it once was. 

She tries again. 

Her breath hitches as her mind fills with memories – your face, your voice, the sparks beneath her fingertips, the heat between the two of you. A lump grows in her throat. She has to stop. 

A part of her wants to give in completely, to let the tension in her body break, to seize the satisfaction that’s right in front of her. But another part of her recoils. Guilt settles, a weight on her chest, as she thinks of your blank stare. 

She pulls her hand away, her body trembling. She feels pathetic. This isn’t what it used to be. Love is too distant, too faded. 

And there’s the other thing. What she doesn’t want to admit. 

She can’t do it alone anymore. 

She rolls over and buries her face in the pillow. This might be her breaking point. Where the fuck does she go from here?

…

To establish a sense of normalcy when your physical injuries finally get written off by your doctor, your therapist suggests you take Amaia to a football match. Obviously Alexia’s match. WIth her tickets. And her mother. 

Although Amaia looks like you, there is so much of Alexia in her. Her enthusiasm, her dedication, and… her love for football. You imagine they must have killed you with their obsession with kicking a ball into a net. They tend to not talk about it now, most family dinners casting a glance backwards to catch you up about the last decade. 

She is radiating excitement beside you as you take your seats. 

The stadium roars as fans pour in, a sea of blaugrana that your daughter slips into, donning her jersey with pride. You wince a bit at the sight, but Amaia is quick to whisper that she doesn’t wear it when Barça plays Bilbao. She speaks with such familiarity. She hardly lets on that her mother doesn’t know who she is. 

Alexia’s own mother, Eli, is a very nice woman. You once employed her, which is how you and Alexia met. You get why she was a good fit – wise, reliable, kind. You also get why she managed to set you up with her daughter. Eli can apparently see right through you. 

Thankfully, she says nothing during the match, the buffer of Amaia actually working. 

You had glanced at the news before, stuff with Alexia’s name in it always catching your attention, and, of course, you’d admired a few photos. But it doesn’t compare to the real thing. 

Since September, Alexia has fumbled her way around you, cautious and unsure. On the pitch, she is the opposite. Determined, commanding, majestic and she swerves and dribbles and takes out players left, right, and centre. She seems to read the future, apprehending attacks, anticipating defensive lines and destroying them before they can even be formed. This passion, this intensity… this is the woman you must have fallen in love with. You’ve been getting to know a shell of her.

You get a lot of things now. (You should’ve let your therapist convince you to attend a match way sooner.)

The final whistle blows and you feel transformed. Not reformed, but, rather, made anew. A butterfly emerging from its cocoon. 

Okay. No. Maybe you’re getting ahead of yourself. 

But right now, as a sweaty Alexia jumps the barrier and sweeps Amaia into her arms effortlessly, you are certainly less resistant to experiencing your recurring dream again. Something guilty ebbs and flows at the back of your mind, but if it were the ocean, it would very much be low tide. 

Her eyes are fixed on you as Amaia recounts the match with her own analysis like a mini-manager ready to sit down and review the footage. Her mother clears her throat once silence settles between the four of you. 

“Mama, we’re getting dinner,” comes the next spoken sentence. Not from Eli. 

You blink.

“Alexia,” Amaia repeats, tugging her arm. “Dinner.” 

“Zer esan duzu?” you mutter under your breath, accessing the private form of communication you have with your daughter like it is the Washington-to-Moscow hotline. It’s often too constrictive, too close, to Amaia for comfort – you’re not quite there yet, no matter how much effort you put into trying to bond with her. 

You’re not dignified by a response, instead met with an uninterested eye-roll (the cheek!) and commotion as everyone starts to move. Well, half the party. Eli kindly lets Amaia drag her away. 

“Did you enjoy the match?” Alexia asks awkwardly, waiting for you to pick your bag up from the concrete floor. She stops herself from getting it for you when you grimace, still getting used to the tightness that will always remain in your ribs. She knows you’d hate that.

“I don’t like football,” you say, because her hair is wet and falling over her face, and her neck is flushed, and her kit is sticking to her in a very flattering way. And you walk past her because you’re probably not going to get this relationship back. 

Your therapist does most of the talking in the next session. Internally, she is screaming. 

…

Sticky glue on clean fingers. Amaia grimaces. She prefers the mess of mud to glitter and paint, but the black pages of the scrapbook are almost full and her end goal makes it worth it. 

Alexia asks what she does in her room that keeps her so quiet, her voice laced with curiosity and that same exhaustion she hasn’t been able to shed since the accident. Alexia, with no answer given, probably assumes it’s reading, or homework, or some other thing that elevates her to saintly status – Oh, Amaia, aren’t you just so special. 

Special girls wouldn’t have been forgotten by their mothers… No. Amaia believes she should not digress. 

The scrapbook is her cure. Or at least, what she has convinced herself will help you, because she is a little girl and what would she know about ground-breaking neurological treatments and the effectiveness of a good psychiatrist? She sees the appointments listed in the calendar Alexia keeps on the dining table – an illicit activity only undertaken when no one seems to be ready to take her to training and she worries she has gotten the time incorrect – but they are just abbreviations and addresses to her. Pictures are real. Pictures cannot be cancelled or argued about or scheduled on top of school concerts and meetings with her concerned teachers.

It was difficult at first, finding the pictures. There were only so many on the iPad you let her borrow – then subsequently forgot about and allowed her to claim. She’d asked Eli for help (Eli would never reveal her secret mission), who told her about something called a disposable camera and then proceeded to go off on a tangent, showing photos of Alexia when she was a baby. But, eventually, when photo-Alexia had reached adulthood, Eli agreed to participate and the next time they convened, she had an envelope of at least three more pages’ worth of material. 

And so they got to work. 

Pages upon pages were slowly decorated with lost memories. Birthdays, holidays, first-times, last-times. If there was a photo of it, in it went. Afternoons in Eli’s kitchen were spent with gel pens and scissors, mornings before school dwindling in length as nights got later and alarms began to be snoozed.

You don’t know what to say when one day, red-cheeked from the exhaustion of the extra goalie sessions, Amaia barrels into the car with exciting news. You’ve been privy to this news, you think, because the coaches have already messaged you about trial dates for better teams (teams that wear blaugrana, to Alexia’s satisfaction), even if the Infantil-Cadet begins at the age of twelve. “I’m so proud of you, txiki,” you begin, before Amaia can speak, your joy bursting at the seams, barely contained in your voice. Affection for her has certainly been something you’ve mustered, even if it has grown from a seed all over again. She is not hard to love. “Alexia has been speaking to Cata and she is going to find time to give you some tips! The girls will be older and you’ll have to work with more powerful shots, more precision.” You’d had a conversation with your footballer (things are still awkward but Amaia is in no-man’s-land and requires civility), who had been monitoring this inevitable progression in Amaia’s life and already had an argument prepared for why she should be allowed to trial. Maybe in another universe, you would have said no. “Don’t worry. I’m sure it won’t be too much of a challenge for you.” 

You turn to watch for Amaia’s reaction, expecting elation or nervousness or something like that. Instead, you are met with confusion. “What’s wrong?” There’s nothing else to ask. 

“That wasn’t my news,” she states. The glimmer in her eyes – your father’s eyes – illuminates the cracks in her serious expression. “You’re going to like my news more, Amatxu. It’s not to do with football. You don’t even like football.” 

“I like football,” you instantly argue, indignantly mentioning Athletic Bilbao’s recent victory. 

“You didn’t before.” She’s somewhat insistent. She reminds you of Alexia, the way her smile is barely contained, her amusement too obvious, too profound. “When we used to go to Alexia’s matches, you’d just stare at her. And I would say ‘Amatxu, the ball is on the right wing’, and you’d still be watching her.” 

“I don’t like football.” 

“You like it when Alexia’s playing.” 

You huff in annoyance. You’ve been… lawyered? By a child. “Tell me your news, Ami.” 

“You stopped calling me that,” she points out.

“Alexia told me you like being called that.” Or, rather, implied it. 

“By my mum.” 

“I’m your mum.” Amaia looks almost prepared to disagree, which stings but in a familiar way that your therapist tells you is a part of healing. Therapy might still be a scam. “Tell me your news, Amaia.” 

“I like Ami.” The car may swerve a little, but then you see darkness and hear screaming and your hands are tightly gripping the wheel again. “My news! Yes, my news. I have a present for you. I’ve been waiting to give it to you for a long time.” 

That’s all you get until you arrive home. 

Alexia is making dinner, the smell of tomatoes and garlic wafting down the hallway as the lift doors swoosh open. She’s listening to music – happy music – and there are rhythmic thuds against the floor. You’re surprised Alexia knows how to dance. 

Her hips sway at the stove, grey joggers outlining toned legs and… Your daughter is right beside you. You blink and hope those thoughts disappear. 

“Ami!” Alexia exclaims at the telltale sound of pitter-pattering. The spoon drops from her hand, stirring be damned, as she swipes the girl into a hug, kissing the top of her head. “How was training?” 

“Seré la nova portera del Barça.” The excitement is infectious as Alexia lifts her slightly off the ground with the force of her hug. It’s immediately warmer, the room filled now that they are together. You try to feel included. The sight momentarily plucks a string somewhere deep inside of you, but before it vibrates, Amaia throws a glance back at you, her cheeky smirk a reminder that she is still hogging her news. 

Alexia sets Amaia down gently, wiping her hands on the teatowel slung over her broad shoulders. “What’s that face for?” she asks, raising a curious brow as the girl slips out her grasp and scurries towards the dining table, schoolbag in tow. 

You linger by the worktop, trying to work past the need to hide from Alexia and failing miserably. Amaia unpacks her bag – ludicrously capacious and stuffed to the brim with art supplies that make you question why you are paying school fees. “I’ve been working on something,” she announces, her voice just shy of a triumphant proclamation. Out comes a spiral-bound book, decorated like a unicorn ate a rainbow and then had diarrhoea. She’s eleven, you suppose. 

Then she opens the book and you regret judging it by its cover. 

She flips past pages filled with images that hitch your breath. Holidays you don’t remember. Birthdays lost to the void that exists between then and now. 

“What is this?” you ask softly, stepping closer despite yourself.

Amaia looks up at you, her expression both shy and proud. “It’s for you.” 

The slosh of sauce being stirred stops abruptly. You try not to look, but Alexia is leaning towards the table for a better view, bottom lip between her teeth as her eyes deepen and her chest grows heavier.

Undeterred by the silence, Amaia continues fervently, “I’ve been making it for months.” She pulls the scrapbook close to her chest for a moment, before offering it to you with both hands, glitter floating to the floor. “It’s so you won’t forget anything anymore.”

You freeze. The walls are touching your sides, too small. Alexia is watching you for your reaction. “Forget?” you echo faintly, hands trembling as they reach for the book. 

Amaia tilts her head, innocence piercing and painful. “Like how you forgot my birthday. Or, like, didn’t know it was.” 

The air is knocked clean out of your lungs. For a moment, you can’t move. You can’t breathe. Alexia’s eyes dart between the two of you, her jaw tightening as she grips the worktop. You know she wants to jump in, wants to soften the blow, but she doesn’t. Not yet. 

Amaia keeps going, her voice steadily reporting shortcomings like bombs she doesn’t know can kill. “I know you didn’t mean to. And I know that you don’t remember things because you hit your head really badly. So you don’t remember my first football practice, or when we used to go to the beach. So… I made this!” 

She flips the pages for you, her tiny fingers smudged with gel pen ink. “Here’s the picture from when we went to New Zealand and Alexia won the world cup.” You’ve seen that one before. She turns the page, “And this,” a small, faded photograph with fridge-worn edges, “is from when I won my first school race. This is in London, see?” She’s grinning widely, front tooth missing, a green field behind her with a grey sky that is certainly not Barcelona. 

Your throat tightens. You can’t look away from the book, each page a kaleidoscope of colours and slipped-away moments. Drowned memories that have sunken into a trench of blackness – still there, just unrecoverable. “Amaia…” Your voice cracks. You might break.

Alexia moves quietly, reaching a hand out to your back before steadying it centimetres away. Her warmth is felt only for a second before she remembers herself and moves away. “This is what you’ve been doing,” she deduces, her surprise comforting. For once, you were not the only one in the dark. 

Amaia beams but she is not looking at Alexia. “I told you you’d like it,” she says. You’ve not given your opinion yet. “Now you’ll never forget again, not even if you want to.”

Silence presses down on the room, save for the gentle bubbling of the tomato sauce on the stove. You clutch the scrapbook tightly, afraid that dropping it will send the wrong message. It’s not perfectly made – far from it. The edges are uneven, the colour clashing in some places, the glue smeared in translucent stains past photos. But it’s beautiful. It's yours, from Amaia. It is her love for you. 

Tears pinch in your eyes. “I don’t deserve this,” you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them. 

Amaia frowns, her brows knitting together in confusion. “Of course you do. Zu zara nire ama.”

Your skin bristles as Alexia moves past you, hand resting on the worktop. “You do,” she agrees. She seems to want to say more, but Amaia, satisfied with her convincing, turns back to the scrapbook, taking it from your hands and opening it to the very last page. 

“This one’s my favourite.” 

The final page is a drawing, not a photograph. It’s sketched carefully, although a little garishly done in neon green, but it’s unmistakable. Three figures stand together, arms linked. Surrounding them are words (Catalan words, you think) and images. Alexia’s hand presses harder into the worktop.

“Alexia says Barça is the best team in the world,” Amaia starts smugly, “but she’s not right.” A grunt of disagreement comes from the woman beside you, but she allows the girl to continue. “We are.” 

The words fall from her lips like a statistic, indisputable yet hard to believe. 

“We’re like a football team, to help Alexia understand,” she then says with a smirk. “Badakit ez duzula gehiago behar, Ama. Oso adimentsua zara.” 

“I’m not stupid,” grumbles Alexia. 

She’s ignored. “You are the attack, Ama. You’re, like, the glamourous one, the one everyone wants to be like, with glory and success and shiny trophies.” You’ve seen Alexia’s trophies, but you don’t argue, assuming it will be pointless when your daughter can be so stubborn. “And then Alexia is in the middle. Attack and defence are a pair, but it’s not right to have them on a pitch without the midfield. It’s never as seamless. The team would be incomplete.” You pause to consider if Alexia is ever afraid of being loved by Amaia. She’d have had no reason to be. “Of course, I am in goal. Nothing slips through me, even if it’s really scary and the ball is coming fast. I make sure we don’t lose.” 

Your breath catches. Something inside you shifts, not the fragments left by Alexia’s football match a few weeks ago, but a new part of this new life. A root in fertile soil. “Thank you,” you murmur, pulling Amaia into a tight hug. She tenses at first, almost shocked by it, but then she is relaxing and hugging you back, face buried in your clothes as though it is what coming home feels like. “I love it. I love you.” 

Alexia watches, her expression softening as she steps back towards the stove. “Dinner’s almost ready,” she announces, giving you both a moment to breathe. 

Amaia pulls back, her grin wide and triumphant. “I told you you’d like my news.” She pauses, glancing slyly at Alexia. “Much better than football, right?” 

The woman’s laugh is warm and free. You want to bottle it. “Careful, nena. You’re about to lose your biggest cheerleader.” 

“Never!” shouts Amaia, before leaning back into you. And for the first time since the accident, part of you is at home. 

[bueckets]

The Prophecy | Part 2

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

Parts: Part One | Two (you're here)

Description: A weekend in Connecticut changes everything. On the court, you and Paige Bueckers are rivals, a clash of titans in a game where perfection is the only currency. Off the court, it’s different. Walls come down, secrets spill, and for a fleeting moment, hearts connect in ways you never thought possible.

But nothing perfect lasts.

WC: 7.9k

Authors Notes: heavy angst, heavy smut, heavy romance n fluff...... somehow all in one. i'm sorry have not proof read as usual

You wake up slowly, sunlight creeping through unfamiliar curtains. For a moment, disorientation fogs your mind. Then it clicks: Paige's room. Paige's bed. Paige’s sweatshirt draped over your shoulders, soft and impossibly warm. It smells like her—clean and fresh, a little bit like lavender, a little bit like something uniquely Paige.

Your eyes drift to the floor, and there she is, stretched out on her makeshift bed. Her face is half-buried in her pillow, hair spilled in golden waves, catching the light in a way that makes it hard to look away. There’s something unguarded about her, something soft and peaceful that tugs at a place deep in your chest.

She stirs, eyes fluttering open, and for a moment, they’re hazy, unfocused. Then they land on you. The corner of her mouth quirks up, and suddenly it feels like the morning itself is holding its breath.

“Hi,” she whispers, her voice still thick with sleep.

“Hi,” you whisper back, your own voice quieter than you expect.

Her gaze flickers to the sweatshirt, oversized and worn, hanging loosely on you. “You’re wearing my sweatshirt.”

“You gave it to me,” you say, feeling your cheeks warm.

"Looks better on you."

Her smile grows a little, and it’s devastating—soft and genuine, with just the faintest edge of teasing. Your heart stumbles, unsure whether to run away or fall forward.

She pushes herself upright, the blanket sliding off her shoulders. Her hair is a mess, and there’s a crease from the pillow on her cheek, and yet she still manages to make the simple act of waking up feel like poetry.

“I should, um, ” You start to move, unsure of where to go, just knowing the air between you feels suddenly electric.

"Wait," she says softly. You freeze, half-sitting.

Paige hesitates, like she’s searching for the right words, then sits on the edge of the bed. Her knee brushes yours lightly, and it sends a ripple of awareness through you. She’s close—so close you can see the faint freckles across her nose, the tiny scar just above her eyebrow, the way her eyes hold flecks of amber that catch the light.

“I just, ” She starts, then falters, her gaze dropping for a moment. When she looks back up, it lingers on your lips, just briefly, just enough to make your breath catch.

"Paige?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you going to kiss me?"

Her eyes widen slightly, and her breath hitches. “I was thinking about it.”

You lean forward just a fraction, feeling your pulse quicken. “Just thinking?”

“Well,” her voice drops to a near whisper, “I’m also thinking about how complicated this could get.”

Your heart pounds. “What else?”

“I’m thinking,” she leans in the tiniest bit closer, her lips nearly brushing yours, “about how none of that feels as important as this does right now.”

The tension between you is thick enough to drown in, and the world outside fades until it’s just her—the warmth of her body so close to yours, the hitch in her breathing, the slight tremble of her hand as she lets it rest near yours.

“So?” you murmur, your voice barely audible.

“So,” she says, her lips curving faintly, “I’m thinking I really want to kiss you.”

You reach out, your fingers brushing her wrist, and feel the quick, fluttering rhythm of her pulse. “Then why haven’t you?”

Her smile turns soft, almost nervous. “Because once I do, everything changes.”

“Maybe,” you whisper, leaning just close enough to feel her breath, “it already has.”

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s her, maybe it’s you, or maybe it’s both of you at once. But suddenly her lips are on yours, and the rest of the world ceases to exist.

The kiss is tentative at first, gentle and searching, like you’re both testing the waters of something impossibly fragile. Then her hand comes up to cup your face, her thumb brushing your cheek, and you melt into the touch, letting the moment deepen.

She sighs softly against your lips, a sound so intimate it makes your chest ache. Your hands slide into her hair, tangling in the soft strands, and she responds by kissing you harder, deeper.

It’s everything you didn’t know you needed. She tastes like hope and possibility and a thousand stolen glances finally realized. Your heartbeat feels like it’s trying to escape your chest, your breath comes faster, and all you can think is more, more, more.

When you finally pull apart, you’re both breathing hard. Her forehead rests against yours, her eyes still closed, and you feel the faintest smile ghost across her lips.

“Wow,” she whispers, her voice still shaky.

"Yeah," you manage, equally breathless.

She pulls back just enough to look at you, and the way she looks at you—soft, hopeful, like you’re something worth believing in—makes your heart stumble all over again.

“You okay?” she asks, her fingers brushing lightly against your cheek.

You laugh quietly, still trying to catch your breath. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.”

“Yeah?” Her smile widens, playful now. “How long is a while?”

You hesitate, then grin sheepishly. “Remember that coffee story you posted?”

She groans, burying her face against your shoulder. “That long?”

“Maybe longer.”

You feel her smile against your skin, and she lifts her head to look at you again, her eyes sparkling. “So what you’re saying is I affect your perfect shot percentage?”

“Shut up.”

She laughs, and it’s warm and familiar, and before you can stop yourself, you’re kissing her again.

When you finally pull back, she’s grinning, looking thoroughly disheveled in the best way.

“Still think you affect my game?” you tease, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

“I don’t know,” she murmurs, her fingers trailing lightly against the collar of her sweatshirt you’re wearing. “Guess we’ll find out in March."

And there it is—the future neither of you wants to think about right now. But before you can spiral, she's kissing you again, soft and sure, like a promise.

"But that's not today," she whispers against your lips.

"No," you agree, pulling her closer. "It's not."

Outside, the campus is waking up. Soon you'll have to deal with reality—practice, teammates, the complicated dance of being rivals and whatever this is becoming. But right now, in the soft morning light of her room, with her lips on yours and her hands in your hair, there's only this:

The way she sighs your name.

The flutter of her pulse under your fingertips.

The feeling that maybe, just maybe, some things are worth the risk.

You kiss her again, and again, each one feeling like a new discovery. Like solving an equation you didn't know needed solving. Like hitting a shot you were always meant to make.

Perfect.

You meant to head back to your hotel after breakfast. Really. But then Paige asked if you wanted to see UConn's practice facility ("Just to check out the competition"), and suddenly you're walking into the most storied gym in women's basketball, her fingers brushing yours every few steps.

The team's already warming up when you enter. The balls stop bouncing one by one as players notice you. Even in practice gear—borrowed from Paige, which is definitely not making you feel things—you command attention.

"Well," a familiar voice echoes through the gym. "Look who decided to grace us with her presence."

Geno Auriemma. The legend himself.

"Coach," you nod respectfully.

He looks you up and down, that famous half-smile playing at his lips. "You know, when we tried to recruit you, I told your parents you'd look good in UConn blue."

"Still trying to recruit me, Coach?"

"Can you blame me?" He gestures to the banners overhead. “Though, word is you're making quite a legacy at Harvard."

You catch Paige trying not to smile. "Just trying to keep up with your squad, sir."

"Show us," he says suddenly. "What all the fuss is about."

The gym goes silent. Even the assistants stop what they're doing.

"Coach," Paige starts, but you're already grabbing a ball.

"Any particular spot?" you ask innocently.

Geno's eyes glint. "Surprise me."

You bounce the ball once, twice. The rhythm settles into your bones like it always does. The physics of it all unfolds in your mind—force vectors, arc trajectories, air resistance.

Then you close your eyes.

The gasps echo through the gym before the ball even hits the net. Perfect swish from half-court.

"Again," Geno says quietly.

You hit from the corner. From the logo. Behind the backboard. Each shot more impossible than the last, each one pure silk. The team's not even pretending to practice anymore, just watching in awe.

"One more," Geno calls out. “Make it interesting.” He calls you by your last name.

You lock eyes with Paige, and something passes between you. A challenge. A promise.

"Anyone want to play defense?" you ask.

The gym erupts. Five players step up immediately—all starters except Paige, who's watching you with something that makes your skin buzz.

"Five on one?" Geno raises an eyebrow. "Bold."

You just smile.

What happens next will probably end up on Twitter within the hour. You move like water through their defense, each dribble calculated, each step precise. A behind-the-back that sends Caroline spinning. A crossover that nearly breaks Tessa's ankles. By the time you rise up for the shot, the defense is scattered like bowling pins.

Nothing but net.

The gym explodes. Players are screaming, filming, shaking their heads in disbelief. But you only register Paige's expression—proud and hungry all at once.

"Happy?" you ask Geno.

He's trying not to look impressed. Failing. "You sure I can't convince you to transfer?"

"Sorry, Coach. My heart's already spoken for." Your eyes flick to Paige for a fraction of a second. "Harvard's home."

The practice continues, and somehow you get roped into running drills with them. It's surreal—playing alongside these girls instead of against them. Especially Paige. The way you move together on court, like you can read each other's minds, has even Geno shaking his head.

"God really did create a perfect basketball player," you hear him mutter after you and Paige execute a no-look give-and-go that ends in a reverse layup.

After practice, you're all sprawled on the court, exhausted but buzzing. Your head's in Paige's lap—friendly enough to seem casual, intimate enough to make your heart race. The team's arguing about dinner plans when your phone buzzes.

"Rocket," Sierra's text reads, "stop breaking ankles at UConn and call me. I need details 👀"

Paige reads it over your shoulder and laughs. Her fingers are playing absently with your hair, and you wonder if everyone can hear your heart pounding.

"You know," Caroline says thoughtfully, "you two are either gonna be the greatest rivalry in college basketball."

"Or?" Paige asks, her hand stilling in your hair.

Caroline grins. "Or something else entirely."

Later that night, back in Paige's room, the energy shifts. You're both aware that tomorrow you head back to Harvard. Back to being rivals instead of whatever this is.

"Stay," she whispers against your lips, and this time you don't even pretend to argue about sleeping arrangements.

Her bed is small, forcing you to tangle together, every point of contact electric. You talk in whispers even though there's no one to hear—about basketball, about dreams, about the way this thing between you feels both impossible and inevitable.

"What are we doing?" she asks softly, tracing patterns on your skin.

"Getting into trouble," you murmur back, but you're smiling.

She kisses you then, slow and deep, like she's trying to memorize the feel of it. Like she knows these moments are stolen, precious because they're forbidden.

"Worth it," she breathes against your mouth.

Her lips linger on yours, swollen and glistening from the fervent exchange, but it’s her hands that steal your breath entirely. One traces the curve of your hip, a teasing promise of what’s to come, while the other dips lower, testing the heat between your thighs. 

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” she murmurs, her voice low, husky, vibrating against your collarbone as she kisses her way down, each touch deliberate, reverent.

You can’t answer, not in words. The way your body arches into her touch, the hitch in your breath, the soft sound that escapes your lips—those are your answers, undeniable and raw.

“Good,” she breathes, her fingers curling around the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down slowly, almost torturously. The air feels cold against your bare skin, but then she’s there, her breath warm, her hands firm and sure as they spread your thighs wider.

The first press of her tongue is electric, like lightning racing up your spine. She moves with precision, her fingers parting you as her tongue explores every sensitive inch, coaxing moans from you that you didn’t know you could make. She hums in satisfaction, the vibrations adding another layer of pleasure that makes your hips buck against her.

“Stay still,” she murmurs, though the command is half-lost in the mess of you. Her hands grip your thighs, holding you in place as she dives deeper, her tongue swirling, teasing, her lips closing around your most sensitive spot to suck gently before flicking it again. The rhythm she sets is maddening, relentless, a perfect balance of pressure and pace.

Your hands find her hair, tangling in the golden waves as you try to ground yourself against the rising tide of sensation. She takes it as encouragement, slipping a finger inside you, then another, curling them just so, hitting a spot that makes your vision blur. She moans against you, the sound guttural and raw, and it’s too much, too good.

“Paige,” you gasp, her name a prayer, a plea, as you shatter beneath her, your body trembling, every nerve alight. She doesn’t stop, drawing out every last wave of your release until you’re panting, boneless, completely undone.

Her mouth lingers, slow and insistent, drinking in every gasp and tremor she pulls from you. Paige is relentless, her tongue working you with precision, her fingers curling just right inside you as if she’s memorized every little sound you make, every shift of your hips. When she finally eases up, her lips leaving a final, teasing kiss against your trembling heat, she doesn’t pull away completely. Instead, she slides up your body, her fingers tracing a path up your thighs, over your stomach, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

She’s grinning, a little smug, her lips glistening, her eyes dark and wild. “You know,” she murmurs, her voice low and rasping, “you’re so goddamn sexy when you play. The way you move… the way you take control.”

Her words are a spark, reigniting the fire already coursing through you. You pull her down, kissing her fiercely, tasting yourself on her tongue, a mix of sweetness and salt and Paige. It’s intoxicating, like she’s everywhere, filling every corner of your senses.

“I could say the same about you,” you breathe between kisses, your hands sliding under her shirt, finding the warmth of her skin. “The way you take the court, like it’s yours… fuck, Paige.”

Her laugh is low, breathy, against your lips. “Show me, then. Show me how much you like it.”

You flip her gently, taking her by surprise as she falls back against the sheets, her golden hair fanned out like a halo. She’s stunning, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted as she gazes up at you with a hunger that mirrors your own. You kiss her again, slower this time, savoring the way she melts under you, the way her body arches to meet yours, desperate for contact.

Your lips leave hers to trail down her jaw, her neck, the hollow of her collarbone. Each kiss draws a shiver from her, her hands gripping your back, nails digging into your skin as you take your time exploring her. You pull her shirt up and over her head, baring her to the soft light spilling through the window.

“God,” you murmur, your voice thick, your hands tracing the curve of her waist, the softness of her stomach, the strength in her arms. “You’re perfect.”

She groans softly, pulling you down to her, her legs tangling with yours. “Stop looking at me like that and do something about it.”

You grin, pressing a kiss just below her ear, then lower, your lips and tongue finding every sensitive spot as you work your way down. Her body responds to you like music, every sigh and gasp and moan drawing you further, making you crave more. When your lips finally find her, the sound she makes—half gasp, half cry—is enough to send a fresh wave of heat through you.

“Shit,” she whispers, her hips bucking against you as your tongue moves, deliberate and slow. Her hands tangle in your hair, pulling you closer, and you can feel the way her body shakes under your touch, her breath coming faster, her voice breaking as she pleads for more.

You give it to her, taking your time, savoring the way she falls apart for you, how her voice grows louder, her grip tighter, until she finally comes undone, her body trembling, her cries echoing in your ears like a song.

You kiss your way back up her body, slow and deliberate, her skin warm and flushed beneath your lips. When you reach her mouth, she pulls you into a kiss so deep it feels like she’s trying to claim you, her hands roaming over you, pulling you closer, needing you like air.

“I’m not done with you,” she murmurs, her voice rough but soft, her hands slipping between your thighs, finding you already aching for her again.

“Paige," you whisper, but she silences you with a kiss, her touch unrelenting as she presses you back into the sheets.

Her body moves against yours, perfectly in sync, her touch everywhere at once—gentle and firm, teasing and demanding. The world narrows to just her, the sound of her voice, the feel of her skin, the way her body feels pressed against yours as she takes you apart piece by piece, only to put you back together again with her hands, her lips, her love.

And when you both finally collapse, spent and tangled together, her head resting on your chest, the room feels impossibly still, the air thick with everything unsaid but understood. You stroke her hair absently, your breathing slowing, your heart still racing in tandem with hers.

“Still think I’m sexy when I play?” she teases softly, her voice muffled against your skin.

You laugh, pulling her closer. “I think you’re sexy all the time.”

Her lips curve against your chest in a satisfied smile. “Good. Because I’m never letting you forget it.”

Her breath evens out against your shoulder, her body soft and pliant as she molds herself to your side. The room is quiet now, save for the occasional rustle of the sheets and the distant hum of the campus stirring to life outside. You stroke her hair absentmindedly, the golden strands slipping like silk through your fingers, and she hums softly, her hand draped across your stomach, anchoring you to the moment.

But as the heat of the night begins to fade, something else creeps in—a faint, nagging ache in your chest that you can’t quite ignore. You close your eyes, trying to push it away, to focus on the rise and fall of her breath, the warmth of her skin against yours. But it’s there, stubborn and persistent: the thought of March, of bright lights and roaring crowds, of her on the other side of the court, no longer your lover but your rival.

She stirs, tilting her head up to look at you, her eyes soft and half-lidded, her lips swollen from your kisses. “What’s on your mind?” she murmurs, her voice thick with exhaustion and something sweeter.

You hesitate, your fingers stilling in her hair. “Just thinking.”

“About?” she prompts, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on your stomach.

“March,” you admit finally, your voice barely above a whisper. The word feels heavy in the quiet, like a pebble dropped into still water.

Her gaze sharpens slightly, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she shifts closer, pressing a kiss to your chest, just above your heart. “It’s just a game,” she says softly, but there’s something in her tone that tells you she knows it’s more than that.

You shake your head, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Not to me. Not to you, either.”

She doesn’t deny it, her silence speaking louder than words. For a moment, you’re both quiet, the weight of what’s coming settling between you. It’s a strange, bittersweet ache—the knowledge that this, whatever it is, will be tested, challenged by the world beyond this room.

But then she lifts her head, her eyes locking with yours, and there’s something fierce in her gaze, something unshakable. “When we’re out there, I’ll play to win. You know that, right?”

“Of course,” you reply, your voice steady, even as your chest tightens. “And I’ll do the same.”

Her lips curve into a small, knowing smile, and she leans up to kiss you, slow and lingering, like she’s trying to hold onto this moment as tightly as you are. “Good,” she whispers against your lips. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

When she settles back down, her head resting on your chest once more, you let yourself relax, let the tension bleed away, if only for a little while. There’s still time before March, before the lights and the pressure and the impossible stakes. For now, there’s only her, her hand in yours, her body warm and safe against your own.

And as sleep begins to pull you under, you can’t help but think that whatever happens—whatever the game brings, whatever the world throws at you—it’ll be worth it. Because for all the risks, all the complications, all the things that might break you, there’s one thing you know for sure: she’s worth it. She always will be.

Sunday morning comes too fast, the sunlight pooling around you, unforgiving in its insistence that the world outside Paige’s room still exists. You stir under the blanket, her warmth pressed against your side, her hand resting on your stomach. You don’t want to move; if you’re honest, you don’t want the day to come at all.

She sighs softly in her sleep, her breath feathering against your shoulder, and it hits you again—how impossibly beautiful she looks like this, messy and undone, tangled in sheets that still carry the weight of last night. You turn your head slightly, pressing a kiss to her forehead, the act so natural it startles you.

Her eyes flutter open, hazy with sleep, but the corner of her mouth curves when she sees you. “Morning,” she murmurs, her voice rough and slow, like gravel wrapped in velvet.

“Morning,” you reply, your hand brushing the wild strands of hair from her face.

Neither of you moves, the silence stretching out, too fragile to break. But it’s there—the inevitable pull of the day, dragging you closer to the goodbye you’re not ready to say. You try to ignore it, try to focus on the way her fingers trace lazy circles on your skin, the way her body fits so perfectly against yours.

“Do you have to go?” she asks finally, her voice soft, but there’s a weight behind it, a quiet desperation that pulls at your chest.

You hesitate, because the truth feels too heavy to say out loud. “Jasmine’s waiting for me.”

She doesn’t argue, just presses her face into your neck, her breath warm against your skin. “Five more minutes.”

You laugh softly, your arms tightening around her. “We said that an hour ago.”

“And yet, here we are,” she teases, but her smile falters as she pulls back to look at you. “Stay.”

Her voice is a whisper, but it carries the force of a command, and for a moment, you’re tempted to throw everything to the wind. Forget Harvard, forget practice, forget the looming storm of March Madness. But reality claws at the edges of the moment, a reminder you can’t ignore.

“I can’t,” you say quietly, and it feels like the words cut both of you.

Her fingers tighten in the fabric of your (her) hoodie, and for a second, you think she’s going to argue, but instead, she leans up, her lips brushing yours in a kiss so soft it feels like it might shatter. It lingers, slow and tender, like she’s trying to memorize the feel of you, trying to hold onto something she knows she can’t keep.

When you finally pull away, her eyes are bright, a mix of emotions you can’t untangle. “Promise me something,” she says, her voice trembling slightly.

“Anything.”

“Don’t let this scare you,” she whispers. “Not what people think, not what’s coming. Don’t let it ruin this.”

You swallow hard, the weight of her words settling in your chest. “I won’t,” you say, and you mean it, even if you don’t know how.

She nods, her smile small but real, and when you kiss her one last time, it feels like a promise.

Later, as you stand in the doorway, your bag slung over your shoulder, the goodbye feels heavier than you expected. Paige leans against the doorframe, her hair a mess, her lips still pink from your kisses, and it takes everything in you not to turn back.

“Text me when you get home,” she says, her attempt at casual missing by miles.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice tight. “I will.”

You make it three steps before you stop, turning back. She’s still there, still watching, and you close the distance in two strides, your lips meeting hers in one last, desperate kiss. When you pull away, her hand lingers on your arm, and for a moment, you’re certain you’ll never want anything as much as you want her.

“Bye,” you whisper, and it feels like the hardest word you’ve ever said.

“Bye, Rocket,” she replies, her smile bittersweet.

You leave before you can change your mind, the burning in your chest growing stronger with every step. The train ride back to Harvard is a blur, your mind replaying every moment, every touch, every stolen glance. By the time you walk into your apartment, Sierra is already waiting, her face lighting up with a mix of excitement and disbelief when she sees you.

But you barely hear her questions, barely register Jasmine showing you the Twitter feeds and SportsCenter highlights. All you can think about is Paige—her laugh, her touch, the way she said your name like it was something sacred.

And as you lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, you can’t shake the thought that March is coming too fast. The court will be the same, the stakes higher than ever, but everything feels different now. Because you know, deep down, that every pass, every drive, every shot will carry the weight of her eyes on you, her voice in your head, her heart in your hands.

And you can’t decide if that makes you stronger—or breaks you completely.

Monday’s practice doesn’t do you any favors. You walk in wearing a neutral hoodie—because you’re not that reckless—but Coach Matthews still gives you a pointed once-over.

“Nice sweatshirt,” she says, her tone dry as Arizona in July.

You open your mouth to deny, deflect, anything—but Sierra beats you to it. “She’s just branching out,” she quips, smirking. “UConn blue really brings out her eyes.”

You’re going to kill her. Slowly. Later. For now, you bury yourself in drills, sinking three after three like muscle memory is your only salvation. Except it’s not, because every damn movement feels like Paige. The way she drives to the basket. The way her passes always find the perfect angle. The way her eyes tracked you during that stupid, unforgettable practice.

The team, bless their nosy little hearts, doesn’t let up either. “Is it true you took on UConn’s starting five?” one asks.

“Did Geno actually try to steal you? Again?”

“Are you and Paige…?”

You hit another three, harder than necessary, and stalk to the water cooler. Sierra sidles up, because of course she does.

“Hey,” she says, not unkindly. “You good?”

“Define good,” you reply, sarcasm sharp enough to cut.

Sierra, annoyingly perceptive, just shrugs. “The team’s just curious. You’re their golden girl, and now you’re maybe-sorta-kinda in love with your biggest rival. It’s a lot.”

“I’m not—” you start, but your phone lights up, and your face does the thing again. The soft, stupid, smiley thing.

“Sure,” Sierra says, smirking. “Keep telling yourself that.”

The texts come later that night. Paige, as usual, doesn’t mince words.

so, how much trouble are we in?

You smirk at your phone, typing back.

none, if you keep your team’s mouths shut.

i can handle them. Can you handle yours?

You glance at Sierra’s empty room, Jasmine’s closed door.

yeah. for now.

Three dots. Then:

good. because i’m not letting this go.

The words make your chest ache, in a good way. In a dangerous way. But for now, it’s just a secret. A sweatshirt in your bag, a name on your screen, a quiet understanding that some things are better kept out of the spotlight.

And if the storm comes anyway? You’ll handle it when it does. Together.

The train hums beneath you, steady and rhythmic, a backdrop to the swirling haze of your thoughts. The sweatshirt Paige gave you is folded neatly on your lap, its scent still faintly there—lavender, sharp cedar, and something else that you can’t quite name but know you’d recognize in a heartbeat.

You should be sleeping. Or staring out the window at the blurred winter landscape, pretending to be reflective and moody, but instead, you’re staring at your phone like a lovesick teenager. Which, technically, you are.

Her last text sits at the top of the screen, smug in its simplicity. 

miss you already. text me when you get home.

You’ve read it so many times, the words have started to blur. Miss you already. Like you’re something worth missing. Like the weekend hadn’t just been everything.

The old lady across the aisle glances at you, her eyebrows furrowing like she can smell the heart eyes from her seat. You flip your phone facedown and pretend to be fascinated by the guy three rows ahead eating a tuna sandwich like it’s his last meal. Anything to stop replaying the way Paige had kissed you goodbye—slow, deep, like she was trying to memorize it.

But then the phone buzzes again, and you’re quick, too quick, fumbling it upright.

also, if you don’t tell Sierra where you were this weekend, i will. and I’ll make it sound worse than it was. or better. depends on the mood i’m in.

You snort, the sound startling the old lady. Her scowl deepens. You type back without thinking:

what, you’re not gonna give me a chance to come up with a good lie?

The reply is instant.

you’re terrible at lying, rocket. stick to shooting.

It’s not fair, how easily she does this—makes you grin like an idiot in the middle of a public space. The train announces your stop, the crackling intercom pulling you out of whatever spell Paige had you under, and you tuck your phone away, the sweatshirt pressed tightly under your arm.

Sierra greets you with a smirk and a raised eyebrow when you walk into the apartment. “You look disgustingly happy.”

“I am happy,” you reply, trying to fight the smile creeping up your face.

“That’s what worries me.” She leans against the counter, studying you. “How was your little rivalry trip?”

“Fine,” you say, brushing past her and heading for your room.

She laughs. “Fine. Sure. Whatever you say, Rocket.”

Inside your room, you toss your bag onto the bed and pull out your phone. Paige’s name stares back at you from the screen, your last conversation still open. You hesitate, wondering if texting too soon makes you seem clingy, then roll your eyes at yourself and type:

made it back. already miss that sweaty gym smell.

Her reply comes almost instantly.

liar. you loved it. miss you more.

You can’t help the stupid grin that spreads across your face, the warmth it brings despite the cold draft creeping through your window. This feels easy. Natural. Like she’s right there with you instead of miles away in Storrs.

You slide onto your bed, fingers poised to type something clever back, but instead, you pause. The sweatshirt is still in your lap, soft and worn, and you tug it over your head without thinking. It’s oversized, hanging loose on your frame, but it feels good. It feels like her.

Your phone buzzes again, and you glance at the screen.

don’t sleep in my hoodie. you’ll ruin it.

You snort, typing back:

already wearing it.

Her reply is almost instant:

figures. good night, rocket. dream of me.

always.

You don’t realize you’ve fallen asleep until your alarm wakes you the next morning, the phone still clutched in your hand and Paige’s name still glowing on the screen.

For the first week, it’s effortless. Every day feels like an extension of that weekend—texts flying back and forth, calls that stretch into the early hours of the morning, your voices sleepy but refusing to let go. She sends you pictures of her sneakers (“new kicks, who dis”), blurry photos of her teammates making dumb faces in the locker room, even a video of her crossing up some poor freshman in practice.

You match her energy, sending her memes, complaining about your coursework, telling her about that one teammate who still can’t figure out a basic pick-and-roll.

It’s easy. Comfortable. Like you’ve been doing this forever.

But then, somewhere in the second week, the rhythm falters.

It’s a Thursday afternoon when you notice it. You’re sitting in the library, a half-empty coffee cup on the desk beside you, when you send her a text.

kill it at practice today?

It takes her three hours to reply.

was okay. tired. you?

You frown at the screen, rereading her words. The response is fine. Normal. But there’s something about it—something flat, like the energy isn’t there.

good. the usual drills. i think Coach is trying to kill us.

This time, the reply comes quicker.

lol. sounds about right.

You stare at the message, waiting for more. A joke, a question, anything. But nothing else comes.

By the end of the week, her texts are starting to feel uneven. Some days, she’s herself again—sending you goofy pictures, teasing you about your shooting form, calling you late at night just to hear your voice. But other days, she’s distant. Replies come slower, shorter, like she’s preoccupied with something she won’t tell you.

You don’t want to push. You know how grueling the season can be, how exhausting the constant practices and travel schedules are. But the unease lingers, settling in your chest like a stone.

One night, you call her. It’s late, almost midnight, and you’ve been staring at the ceiling for an hour, your thoughts too loud to ignore.

The phone rings once. Twice. Three times.

Her voicemail picks up.

You hang up without leaving a message, tossing your phone onto the nightstand with more force than necessary.

The next morning, you wake up to a text from her:

sorry, fell asleep. long day. Miss you, rocket.

The words feel like a balm, soothing the ache from the night before. You tell yourself not to overthink it, to let it go.

But then it happens again.

A missed call. A delayed reply. Another vague excuse.

You start keeping track without meaning to. Three unanswered texts this week. Two missed calls. A growing list of reasons you tell yourself not to be upset:

She’s busy.

She’s tired.

It’s nothing.

By the fourth week, you’ve stopped texting her first. Not because you’re angry, but because you’re tired. Tired of the one-word replies, the half-hearted conversations, the way she always seems just out of reach.

She doesn’t notice. Or maybe she does, and she just doesn’t care.

Either way, the silence grows.

Then, the video hits Twitter on a Tuesday morning.

You’re in Advanced Orbital Mechanics, half-listening as Professor Dillard drones on about transfer orbits and delta-v calculations. His voice is a flat monotone, the kind that barely registers after twenty minutes, but you keep your pen moving, scribbling half-legible equations in your notebook. The classroom is dimly lit, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, and the faint smell of coffee and dry-erase markers clings to the air.

Your phone buzzes once, a sharp vibration against the desk. Then twice. Then again, the rhythm insistent. A few heads turn toward you, their eyes flicking briefly to the offending noise before returning to their own notes. You glance down at the screen, expecting to see the usual: Sierra sending a TikTok link she swears will “change your life,” or Jasmine reminding everyone about the next team meeting.

Instead, the notifications pile up faster than you can track.

Sierra: "don’t check twitter."

Jasmine: "rocket baby i’m so sorry."

Your stomach tightens, unease clawing at your chest. The buzzes don’t stop. One after another, messages flood in—texts from teammates, old friends, people you haven’t spoken to in years. The words blur together, overlapping until they’re nothing but noise.

The team group chat is a wildfire.

"Holy shit"

"Is that really...?"

"When was this?"

"Someone needs to check on Rocket."

You flip your phone over, trying to focus on Dillard’s lecture, but the vibration rattles against the desk, relentless. Finally, you give in, unlocking the screen with shaking fingers.

Twitter opens slowly, the loading circle spinning like it’s mocking you. The first thing you see is the video—top of your feed, trending already.

You don’t want to press play.

But you do.

The footage is shaky, the kind of video that screams “someone was not supposed to be recording this.” The lighting is dim, music pulsing faintly in the background, and it only takes a second for your stomach to drop. You know this place. You know that party. A UConn team event.

You see Paige and Azzi in a dark corner, laughing together. It’s innocent at first—until it isn’t. Azzi’s hand finds Paige’s waist. Paige leans in, her fingers tangling in Azzi’s hair. The way they look at each other—intimate, familiar. Like you’re not even a memory.

And then they’re kissing.

Not a first kiss. Not a hesitant, drunken mistake. This kiss is something else entirely—familiar, practiced.

The caption is almost worse than the video.

"The Prince has found her Princess? 👀 @azzi_35 @paigebueckers"

The phone slips from your hands and lands on the desk with a muted thud. The air feels like it’s been sucked out of the room. The noise draws a glance from the girl sitting next to you, but you don’t meet her eyes. You can’t.

You’re The Prophecy. You’re unshakable. But right now, you’re just a girl who loved someone who made it look so easy to love someone else.

The lecture continues in the background, but it might as well be static. Your mind races, replaying the video in an endless loop, each frame sharper than the last. The way Paige had smiled. The way Azzi had leaned in. The way Paige hadn’t stopped her.

The phone buzzes again.

Sierra: “Where are you? Are you okay?”

Jasmine: “Talk to us, Rocket. Please.”

You don’t reply. You can’t.

Instead, you pack your things in a blur, shoving your notebook and pens into your bag with trembling hands. The professor’s voice follows you to the door, droning on about escape velocity, but you’re already gone.

You don’t cry. The Prophecy doesn’t cry.

Instead, you go to the only place that’s ever made sense: the gym.

The air outside is cold, sharp, biting against your skin as you make your way across campus. You barely notice it. Everything feels muffled, like you’re moving through a fog, the world blurred at the edges. The weight in your chest anchors you, pulling you forward.

The door slams behind you, the echo bouncing off the walls and rattling through the empty bleachers. You don’t bother with the lights. Don’t need them. You’ve made these shots in your sleep.

The air is stale, a mix of old sweat and the faint bite of disinfectant. It settles in your lungs, heavy but familiar. The ball rack sits in its usual spot, the leather scuffed and worn, the only constant thing in a world that’s suddenly upside down.

You grab the first ball you touch, its surface cool and rough under your fingertips. You spin it once, testing the weight. It feels right. Solid.

Your sneakers squeak against the floor as you step to the free-throw line. You take a breath, chest tight, and focus on the rim—a faint outline in the shadows.

Release. Swish.

The sound cuts through the dark, clean and sharp. You grab another ball, your movements quick, automatic. No time to think. Thinking is dangerous.

This time, you picture Paige. Her smile, the way she looked at Azzi in the video—like you weren’t even a memory.

Release. Swish.

Another ball. Her hand in Azzi’s hair. The way they leaned into each other like it was easy. Like it was nothing.

Another ball. Paige laughing, Azzi’s arm around her waist.

Release. Swish.

The way Paige looked at her, like she was her world. Release. Swish.

You move faster, grabbing ball after ball from the rack, launching them with more force each time. Each shot lands clean, cutting through the dark air with sharp precision. The physics is still there, but now it’s powered by something darker. Something raw and jagged.

Release. Swish.

Release. Swish.

Release. Swish.

Your chest heaves, breath shallow, heart pounding against your ribs. You’re not even looking at the rim anymore, just firing into the darkness. Each shot is a missile, and the target is the knot of anger and heartbreak lodged deep inside you.

The rhythm becomes hypnotic: swish, bounce, swish, bounce.

And then it happens.

A memory hits you mid-shot: Paige sitting on the bleachers, chin in her hand, watching you practice. The way she smiled that first time she said, "God, you’re perfect."

Your fingers slip, the ball leaving your hands wrong. You know it immediately. The rotation’s off, the arc’s too flat. For the first time in 1,147 shots, The Prophecy misses.

The clang of the rim is deafening in the stillness.

You freeze. The ball rolls to a stop somewhere in the shadows.

Then something inside you cracks wide open.

The scream tears out of you before you can stop it—raw, guttural, primal. It echoes through the gym, bouncing back at you like the sound of your own heartbreak mocking you. 

The rack of balls goes flying as you shove it over, the sound of them scattering across the court like stars. You’re on your knees before you realize it, fists pounding against the hardwood, your throat raw, your vision blurring with something you promised yourself you wouldn’t feel.

"Rocket!"

The voice barely registers. Then hands are on your shoulders, pulling you back. You twist, trying to break free, but then you hear it again.

"I’ve got you," Sierra whispers. Her arms wrap around you, holding you steady as you shatter into pieces.

Jasmine is there too, her hands stroking your hair, her voice soft and soothing. “We’re here,” she murmurs. “We’ve got you.”

"She—" your voice cracks, breaking apart like glass. "They—"

"We know," Jasmine murmurs, pulling you closer. "We know, baby. It’s okay."

"I missed," you choke out, the words hollow and broken. "I never miss."

Sierra pulls back just enough to cup your face, forcing you to meet her eyes. "You’re allowed to miss," she says firmly. "You’re allowed to break. You’re allowed to be human."

"But The Prophecy—"

"Fuck The Prophecy," Jasmine says fiercely, her voice steady as a rock. "Right now, you’re just our girl, and you’re hurting, and that’s okay."

The words hit you like a lifeline, and finally, you let yourself collapse into them. You let the tears come, let them see the raw, vulnerable part of you that’s been hidden for so long. They hold you there on the court where you’ve been perfect, where you’ve made history, where you just missed for the first time because someone you loved broke your heart.

Later, they’ll help you to your feet. They’ll walk you home. They’ll make sure you eat, sleep, and breathe, even when it feels impossible.

Later, Paige will blow up your phone:

“please let me explain."

“it’s not what you think."

“i never meant to hurt you."

Later, you’ll pick yourself up and turn this pain into something sharper, something unbreakable.

But right now, in the dark gym, in the arms of your best friends, you let yourself break. You let yourself be human. You let yourself feel everything you’ve been trying to calculate away.

Because some things are perfect until they break.

And some things are stronger after breaking.

[creamflix]

cw: true form/heinan era sukuna slowly looses his memory, heavy angst

the weight of his gaze was enough to still the world around you, but today, it faltered. sukuna’s crimson eyes, usually sharp and brimming with mischief or menace, flickered with an unfamiliar haze. he sat on his throne, one hand propping up his head, the other clenched tightly against his thigh, knuckles pale.

“you’re late,” he muttered, voice rough but lacking its usual venom. his lips twitched downward, a small frown pulling at their corners as he looked at you like he was searching for something — someone — within you.

“late? i was here yesterday,” you replied cautiously, studying his face.

“yesterday,” he repeated, rolling the word on his tongue like it was foreign. his brow furrowed deeply as he leaned forward, shoulders tense. “don’t lie to me, woman.”

“i wouldn’t dare,” you said softly, stepping closer. his tone lacked conviction, and that scared you more than his usual anger.

he laughed bitterly, the sound hollow. “you’re terrible at it, though,” he murmured, the words almost to himself. his hand reached out to you, his massive palm enveloping yours when you dared to close the gap.

your thumb ran over the rough calluses of his fingers, tracing the evidence of lifetimes spent carving his dominion. “what’s wrong, sukuna?” you asked quietly.

“nothing.” but the way his fingers tightened around yours betrayed him.

“you’re lying,” you pressed, moving to kneel in front of him, uncaring of how the stone floor bit into your knees.

he sucked in a breath, his chest heaving as if the act of pulling air into immortal lungs had suddenly become taxing. “you were gone longer this time,” he confessed, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

you blinked, confused. “i wasn’t gone at all. i’m here every day, sukuna.”

his head tilted slightly at the sound of his name, his eyes narrowing as if testing whether the title held meaning anymore. his lips parted, then closed, his tongue darting out to wet them. he looked lost —disjointed from his own mind.

“you say that,” he finally said, voice trembling with frustration. “but there are pieces — pieces i can’t find. memories. your face, sometimes. your voice.” his free hand came to his temple, pressing hard as if willing the scattered shards of thought to rearrange themselves.

the sight of him like this — sukuna, the king of curses, raw and vulnerable — twisted something deep within you. you reached up to cup his face, drawing his attention back to you.

“you don’t have to fight this alone,” you whispered, your voice firm even as tears pricked your eyes.

he leaned into your touch, his eyes sliding shut. “what if i forget you completely?” he rasped, his tone holding an uncharacteristic fragility that made your chest ache.

you leaned closer, pressing your forehead against his, grounding him. “then i’ll remind you,” you said, the promise steady in your voice. “every single day, i’ll remind you.”

for a moment, his lips quirked upward in a faint smile, his hands finding your waist to anchor himself. but when his eyes opened again, the haze had returned, and his grip faltered.

“who… are you again?” he asked quietly, fear bleeding into his tone.

you swallowed hard, fighting the tears threatening to spill, and held him tighter. “i’m yours, sukuna. i’m yours.”

and for now, that would have to be enough.

produced by creamflix on tumblr. all rights reserved. do not copy, steal, modify, repost — support your writers by liking and reblogging. ♡

[capquinn]

Quinn would get so competitive making gingerbread houses with you when it’s just supposed to be a fun activity to do staying home on a lazy day

he'd be so insufferable. i bet he's the kind of guy who is just so naturally good at everything that its infuriating and always turns things into a competition without ever telling you that it's a competition

The whole point was just to have a lazy day at home, doing something festive and fun. But no. He’s sitting there at the kitchen table, sleeves pushed up, tongue poking out in concentration, carefully placing each gumdrop and licorice twist like he’s Michel-freaking-angelo working on the Sistine Chapel.

And honestly? His gingerbread house looks amazing. Like, annoyingly amazing. The frosting is perfectly piped, the roof is straight out of a Pinterest board, and he’s even managed to create these perfect little windows with crushed candy. Meanwhile, your house is… fine. It’s cute in its own way, but the roof is a little crooked, and you’re kind of just sticking things on wherever they fit, more interested in eating the decorations than anything else. You’ve already nibbled the corner off your gingerbread door, and you’re halfway through the pile of skittles you were supposed to share.

At some point, Quinn glances over at yours and smirks.

“You want me to help you with that?” Quinn asks, trying to sound casual, but there’s this little lilt in his voice, this smugness that he can’t quite hide.

His eyes flick to your gingerbread house, and it’s infuriating because you know exactly what he’s thinking. His is better, and he knows it.

You roll your eyes, popping a skittle into your mouth like you don’t care. “No, Picasso. I’m good.”

But it’s when he turns back to his house, humming to himself as he meticulously places another gumdrop on the roof, that you make your move. He’s so smug. His house is so perfect, and yours is… well, it’s standing. Barely. And it’s not like you’re jealous, not exactly, but he doesn’t need to rub it in.

So, you do it. You reach over the table, pluck the last of his skittles from the bowl — the ones he’s been carefully using to line the walkway — and toss them into your mouth without an ounce of remorse. You do it pointedly, locking eyes with him as you chew, like you’re making a statement. Not that you’re mad, but just because you can.

Quinn freezes, his hand mid-air with a gumdrop, and the look on his face is nothing short of devastation.

“Why… would you do that?” he asks, his voice tinged with disbelief, like you’ve just stomped on his dreams.

You shrug, swallowing the skittles with a little smirk. “They were yummy.”

“They were for the pathway,” he says, gesturing helplessly to the half-finished walkway. He looks back at you, then at the bowl, then at you again, like he’s trying to comprehend the betrayal. “Now I can’t finish it. We're gonna have to go back to the store.”

That sends you into a fit of giggles, your hand covering your mouth as you lean forward on the table.

“Quinn, oh my god. It’s a gingerbread house. It’s not that serious.”

“It is that serious,” he shoots back, though his lips twitch like he’s trying not to laugh. He points to his house, dramatically waving at the half-finished masterpiece. “Do you know how much time I’ve spent on this?”

“Too much,” you tease, biting back another laugh as his mock devastation turns to an exaggerated sigh. You push up from your seat and walk around the table, wrapping your arms loosely around his neck from behind. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

He huffs, trying to keep up the act, but his hands instinctively find your arms, his thumbs brushing soft patterns over your skin.

“You’ve ruined it,” he mutters, but the way his head tilts toward yours says he’s already forgiven you.

You lean down, pressing a light kiss to the corner of his mouth, unable to stop the grin spreading across your face against his skin. “It’s not a competition.”

Quinn turns just enough to catch your eye, his expression finally cracking as a breathy laugh escapes him. “If it was,” he says, a teasing glint in his eye, “you definitely would’ve lost.”

You gasp, playfully smacking his shoulder, and his laugh deepens, pulling you into his lap with a quick tug.

“Oh, come on,” he says, grinning now. “Admit it. You’re just mad mine’s better.”

“And you’re just mad I ate your stupid skittles,” you counter, poking his chest.

[azsazz]

Over Ice (Part 8)

Hockey!Rhysand x Reader

Summary: Anon Req: She’s walking around Campus and BOOM right smack dab into Broody McBrooder!! She THEN finds out he’s the tutor for one of her hardest courses (personally Psych would be a good one) and they become super duper close with him and the team!!!

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 3,580

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7)

_________________________________________

Rhysand feels her before he sees her.

That fucking prickling at the nape of his neck like the tip of a burning blade being pressed to his skin. It’s hot, and if he weren’t already sweating, he surely would be with the ire that’s directed his way.

“Don’t look now,” Azriel mutters from beside him where he’s stretching his hips before the big game. Across the ice, the Porcupines are warming up for the game that will start in no time. It’s an important one, but Rhys says this about all of the Bat’s games. He’s been trying to slip into the mindset he’s always in before games, the one where his focus and only focus is scoring goals, but the eyes he feels watching the way his hips cant back and forth as he stretches his groin make igniting that competitive fire in him difficult.

He peeks over his shoulder despite his teammate’s warning, ignoring the scoff Azriel huffs in response. Rhys can practically hear his friend rolling his eyes as he sinks even deeper into the ice.

His eyes clash with the crimson ones he’s seen too much of the past week. Amarantha sits in the stands beside her friend, smiling at Rhysand like a feline, like he’s still hers to mess around with.

Fuck. He didn’t expect to see her around, especially after you and him made your fake relationship all but clear to his ex-girlfriend on Halloween night.

The memory alone makes his stomach clench. Rhysand runs a tongue across his lips as if he can still chase the feeling of you from them. He thought about the kiss you shared for long after you left, and not even the beer nor the shot of fiery whiskey that followed could erase the taste of you from his lips.

“What the fuck is she doing here?” He groans, kicking a leg in front of him and leaning forward. Normally, the stretch would feel good, but with Amarantha behind him and drinking him in like he’s a tall glass of hers, Rhys feels more than uncomfortable.

“I told you not to look,” Azriel responds, rising to his skates. He offers Rhys a hand, and the pair make their way across the ice to the tunnel that leads to the locker room.

He was right, he absolutely shouldn’t have looked. Now he’s not only going to be dodging opponents, but Amarantha’s heavy stare, too.

“What are we doing this weekend?” Cassian asks, sidling up beside his friends. Of course, he’s already wondering what the move is, when the weekend is two days away. He’s not as serious as Rhysand is about hockey, with his blasé attitude. If Cassian can get out on the ice, hit a few guys without serving a penalty or two, he’s as happy as can be. “We should hang out.”

For Rhysand, hockey is his life. Everything else, including the freedoms that most college students prioritize, like parties and hooking up, comes second to the sport he loves.

Well, hooking up has reared its head into Rhysand’s first place spot every once in a while, and he’d be a fool not to reap that particular reward, but look where it’s fucking got him. With a stage-five clinger ex in the audience and a fake girlfriend that’s he’s all but blackmailed.

“We hang out every day,” Rhys answers, reeling over what the hell he’s going to do. He winces when he decides that he a little more blackmail might be in the both of your futures. “We live together.”

While you’ve agreed to pretend to be his girlfriend to prove to his delusional ex-girlfriend that he’s no longer interested, Rhys hadn’t forced you into attending any of his games. He didn’t think that Amarantha would actually show up to them, especially since she never showed any interest in hockey past the jersey she ripped off Rhysand’s body the night they hooked up.

“Humor me,” Cassian replies with a crooked grin, taking his seat beside Rhys at his locker. Rhys ignores his friend, shucks off his gloves, and roots around his locker for his phone to shoot off a text before Coach Devlin makes it into the room for a pre-game pep-talk.

Rhysand: Need you to come to my game. Amara alert.

He started referring to her as that after the unfortunate first meeting where you had pretended to be his girlfriend and called her the wrong name. It brings him a little bit of cruel humor that eases his shoulders that are tight with tension. If you don’t answer, if you have other plans, like a date, he’s screwed.

Rhys hand clenches around his phone instinctively at the thought. He doesn’t like the thought of you out with anyone else, even if you are only in a fake relationship for the sake of warding off his ex. The idea of you laughing at someone else’s jokes, intertwining your fingers with theirs, kissing them, makes his muscles grow tight and fire flash in his veins.

“I’m busy,” he answers lamely to his roommate, who’s shoving the damp hair from his face and awaiting his captains answer obediently. Cassian frowns, but Rhys’ eyes are glued to his screen, awaiting those three little dots to appear that show you’re typing.

It’s true. He’s tutoring you tomorrow night, has a major psych paper of his own that’s due on Friday morning, and then the team is on the bus that afternoon for two consecutive games against the Grizzlies. It’s going to be a draining weekend, but if the team can manage to beat the Stags this weekend, the lack of sleep he’s going to be dealing with will be worth it.

It almost always is.

After a minute of tapping his skate impatiently on the ground and suffering a scythe-sharp glare from Azriel who is trying to get into his own headspace for the game, you respond.

You: Do I have to?

Rhys chews his lip as the thinks. No, you don’t have to, but what kind of supportive relationship would he be in if his girlfriend didn’t show up to his game? Especially when his ex-girlfriend is there and will definitely take notice of your absence?

Rhysand: Please? It’ll be fun.

You: For who?

He bites back a smile. He likes your witty attitude more than he should. Everything that comes out of your sassy mouth surprises him, and he imagines the way the corner of your mouth curved in that self-satisfied smile as you sent the message.

I’ll owe you one, big time, he texts, refraining from adding an innuendo that will surely make you not show up to his game. So, what if he wants to get a little cheeky with his fake girlfriend? At least you know how to give it right back.

You: Like, more than you already do?

The door bangs shut as Coach Devlin steps into the room. Rhysand flicks a look over his shoulder and releases a breath when he sees him conversing with one of the assistant coaches. If Devlin spots him on his phone before the game, there’s going to be hell to pay.

Rhysand: Please. I’ll do anything you want.

You: Deal. You’re lucky that I’m already on my way with Mor.

Relief has his shoulders dropping. Rhys should probably figure out his cousin’s sudden interest in attending his hockey games, but when it’s serving him as well, it isn’t worth questioning.

“Well, are we still planning on hitting Rita’s tomorrow night?” Cassian asks. Rita’s is a dive-bar that for some reason the Velaris Universities hockey team has been going to for decades. Rhys doesn’t know why it’s a thing, since the place is run-down and the beer tastes like watered down piss, but it’s tradition for the team to go the night before big away games.

As the captain of the Bat’s, Rhysand should go. Going to Rita’s the Thursday before game weekends is tradition as much as it is superstition. Which means that the team is there most weekends during the season, which can be utterly exhausting. It’s not required, and he’s pretty sure that the superstition aspect of attending has been proven wrong more than a handful of times, but if he doesn’t show up, the team will give him hell, and it’ll look like he doesn’t care. He hasn’t missed one outing there yet, but this semester is stacking up to be his most difficult, between trying to keep his near-perfect GPA, overseeing an entire hockey team, whilst volunteering to help plan the teams winter philanthropy.

Tack on tutoring one of the prettiest girls he’s ever seen, and Rhys expects himself to drop dead from exhaustion at any second.

“Dunno if I can make it,” Rhys says, shoving his phone back into his locker and collapsing on the bench. “I have a tutoring session.” He’s more than ready to shake off this skittish feeling and get his head into the game. Amarantha’s appearance has already affected him more than he wants, and he doesn’t have a good feeling about the game right now.

You saying that you’ll be attending loosens some of the knots in his stomach.

“Oh,” Cassian waggles his brows suggestively and Rhys rolls his eyes. “A study date?”

“I didn’t say it was a she,” Rhysand snaps back quickly. He’s all but praying that Coach Devlin finishes his conversation quickly so that he can get onto the ice and focus on something that doesn’t involve his girl issues.

“Neither did I.”

Rhys really doesn’t know why he decided to room with Cassian for the past two years.

“Didn’t you just see her on Monday?” Azriel asks as he finishes his pre-game ritual. It involves the utmost silence—which he never gets since the locker room is filled with adrenaline-fueled college boys—and the charm of his necklace clutched tightly between his fingers.

Rhys shrugs. “Yeah, but she needs a lot of help.”

Cassian grins suggestively, and Rhys braces himself for the remark that’s about to roll off his tongue. There’s a fifty percent chance it’s going to be something about Rhys offering her a hand, and a fifty percent chance Cassian will say something about the kiss you shared, but no matter what comes out of his mouth, Rhys knows it will be one hundred percent inappropriate.

Thankfully, Coach saves the day, grunting at all of the players to quiet down so he can make one of his famous pep talks that aren’t at all famous and more barking out orders than talking.

“Alright, boys.” Coach’s presence demands attention, and the locker room goes so quiet Rhysand swears he can hear Amarantha’s high-pitched voice through the concrete. A shudder works its way up his spine and his stomach twists into uneven knots. “This is an important game. I want everyone on their toes. Keep your eyes peeled for open shots, pass accordingly, and don’t tarnish my good name.”

It's the same speech Coach gives before every game, and Rhys can recite it word for word. It’s concise, to the point, and carries enough of a threat that every player in the locker room knows that if they play like shit, there is going to be hell to pay at tomorrow’s practice.

That bad feeling worms its way back into his mind, coiling his muscles with tension. Fuck, if he doesn’t get his head straight, he’s going to play like shit and Coach Devlin won’t have any of that.

Rhys slams his eyes shut, shoves all of the warring thoughts from his mind, and hones in on Coach Devlin’s voice.

Rhysand’s head hasn’t been in the game since there were eighteen minutes and twenty-three seconds left on the clock. He knows this because it’s when he spotted you in the bleachers and his focus latched onto you, causing him to miss a pass from Cassian and a Porcupines player to slam into him.

Only his first mistake of the night.

He’s playing like shit, and everybody knows it.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Azriel grunts as he slides up to Rhys’ side as the play resets. He’d fumbled the puck, badly. By the time he recovered, successfully managing to steal it back during a scrum with a few Porcupines players, he had no ample time to shoot, and his shot dinged off of the goalpost.

“I don’t know,” Rhys mutters, cursing himself. It could just be a bad day, but Rhys doesn’t allow himself to have those. He has to be in tip top shape in case recruiters show up to their games, because they’re the deciding factor in whether he gets any interest from a national league, which is what he’s been working towards since he was four.

He knows. He knows exactly what’s fucking with his head. At first, it was his ex in the stands, but as soon as he caught sight of you, all thoughts of her were fucking obliterated.

You’re wearing that mutilated jersey Mor made you. The one with the hem cut to the high heavens and the collar snipped to the valley of your breasts. He doesn’t know if he wants the shirt so long that it reaches your knees or if he wants to peel it off you completely.

To your knees, definitely to your knees. There are too many people around for the latter. He’d rather see that show in his bedroom while you straddle his lap.

His number on the back of the jersey isn’t helping him keep his mind from latching onto those impure thoughts, either.

Rhysand’s entire weekend was spent replaying the kiss you shared on Halloween. How soft and perfect you were. The hint of fruity lip gloss and tequila that painted your lips was a prominent taste in his mouth for hours after.

He could hardly focus on his homework, at hockey practice. Coach reamed him out after his mistakes had cost the team a two-a-day, and he’s doing the same right now when he told himself that he wouldn’t let you distract him.

And with the way your eyes sparkled when you caught sight of him on the ice only reminds him that while you’re more than upholding your end of the bargain, he still hasn’t had asked coach about getting you that athletic training internship with the team. By the look on coach’s face, cheeks red with anger, jaw clenched so tightly that if Rhys didn’t know he already had a few fake teeth from his own days as a hockey player, he’d worry that he’d grind them into dust.

“Cunningham,” Coach says gruffly when he and Azriel slide onto their spots on the bench. The crowd roars as the second line chases the puck across the ice, playing keep-away from the Porcupines as they search for an opening to take a shot.

Rhys forces his eyes on the puck when he notices his gaze wandering your way. He catches sight of your worried face, your brows pulled together and mouth turned down in a frown. You chew on your lip and it’s fucking tantalizing. He wants that lip trapped between his own—

“Get your head out of your ass.” Coach’s voice appears in his ear and he startles. Fuck, Devlin just caught him openly staring in the stands instead of focusing on the game. He’s totally going to have sprints in his future. “I have no problem benching my captain,” he emphasizes, like the title alone should bring a shroud of shame. It has its desired effect, Rhys ducks his head. He wouldn’t be surprised if he gets a smack to the back of his helmet with Coach’s clipboard. He’s seen it happen before. “The Porcupines aren’t even that good for fuck’s sake, and they’re beating us 2-1!”

He can feel the frustration emanating off his coach in waves. It does nothing to ease the moral of the rest of his teammates, who glance at him from down the bench. Rhysand isn’t making a good impression on his team tonight, and everyone can tell. His cheeks burn with embarrassment.

Come on, asshole, he scolds himself, lifting one of the water bottles to his mouth. The cool water is refreshing, and he gulps down a few sips before tilting his head further back and squirting the liquid down his neck.

“Yes, Coach,” he responds like a scolded child.

When it’s his turn to hit the ice, the mantra he’d been shouting in his head over and over slips away as easy as the terrain beneath his skates. He’s all too aware of the pairs of eyes that follow him as he stakes toward the center mark on the ice for the puck drop. Amarantha’s viper-like gaze sends the hair at the nape of his neck standing, which is a feat in itself because it’s soaked with sweat.

It’s your eyes that give his heart an erratic jump, but Rhysand blames it on adrenaline for the beginning of the second period.

He focuses, shoves away every thought that doesn’t revolve around this game right here and now from his head. He thinks about coach’s threat back on the bench as he gets into position for the puck drop: Get your head out of your ass. I have no problem benching my captain.

So, like the good captain he is, he pulls his head right out of his ass and gets to work.

He wins the faceoff, sending the puck shooting to Azriel, who takes it up the ice with ease. As a Porcupines player closes in on him, his hazel gaze locks on Cassian, who’s two paces in front of the player chasing him down.

Rhys makes himself open as Cassian slams the puck around the rink, using the side boards as a guide. He’s there to catch it behind the opposing goalies net and pushes off the side of his blade, scooping the puck onto the edge of his stick and slamming it into the net right between the goalie’s trapper and his shoulder.

The arena erupts in cheers and Rhys grins. Pride screams down his veins and fills his body with a high that he revels in. His teammates on the ice skate his way, clapping him on his shoulders and helmet, congratulating him on his goal. The worries that had been consuming him eke away now that he’s tied the game.

He can’t help himself, seeking you out in the crowd. Mor is turned to the people sitting beside her, but you’re staring right at him, and his heart gives an extra hard pound in his chest. He tosses a wink your way, and his grin turns feral when you roll your eyes and raise an unimpressed brow.

Oh, you want to see another? He can make that happen.

“Nice shot, bro,” Cassian says, skating beside him to reset in the neutral zone.

“Thanks. Let’s keep them coming.”

Nothing eventful happens within this shift. Then, he’s off the ice, and Rhys’ focus is fully on the game. He feels back in his element, more than ready to prove to you just how good of a player her can be.

It strikes him, how he wants to show off not only for his coach, team, potential scouts, but that he wants to do it for you. He likes the way your eyes follow him across the ice, the way that you’re shouting at the refs when he gets a whistle blown on him even though he’s pretty sure you have no idea what’s going on. It’s cute, the glare you’re shooting at the zebras in his honor as he takes a turn in the penalty box for high-sticking.

He catches a few things that his team can improve on, and his determination only skyrockets. The minutes are winding down, and with the power-play the Porcupines are on, they manage to score and Rhys is out of the box. His eyes flick to the clock: one minute left.

Light work.

The puck hits the ice with a clack and Rhys is locked in. There’s a skirmish for possession, and ultimately, it’s the Porcupines that come out on top. They manage to get it into the Bat’s zone, but the violet-clad players don’t make it easy for them to shoot. Cassian takes a shot to the thigh and he grunts in pain but manages to snag the puck and shoot it up the ice to where Rhys stands between two opposing players.

Before the puck even touches his stick, he’s shooting up the ice, calculating the little black circle’s trajectory. He looks to his left, to his right, all while avoiding the slashing sticks the Porcupines players are trying to dislodge his play with. But he’s too quick. There’s no one around, and the players following him are no match for Rhys’ speed.

His focus zeroes in on the goalie. Through the cage, the player wears a look just as determined as Rhys, but he latches onto that sliver of nerves like a fucking leech, and Rhys knows that he has him.

One, he shuts everything out. The sounds of the crowd fade away, and it’s just him and the net.

Two, Rhys readies for the shot. The goalie creeps to the front of the blue paint and he grins. He has him right where he wants him, faking left and shooting right.

Three, the puck hits the back of the net, the horn blows, and victory is his.

_________________________________________

Over Ice Taglist:

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[satangcrush]

goodness gracious

lucifer x g!n reader, sfw, not beta-read

a/n▸ no idea if i can keep up with it but here's my day 1 entry for @om-adventcalendar. this was written in a haze so idk either. lowkey follow-up to this I think? i had no plans but I feel like it fits

The Avatar of Pride prides himself on his self-control.

He’s not delusional enough to think he’s the best at it when demons like Barbatos far outweigh him in this. But, he would like to think he’s confident enough in his control over his emotions.

Especially when you keep tempting him.

The slow drawl of your voice, the way you look at him softly when he speaks; just everything that you do. He’s lucky he has already fallen, else Father might have cast him out of the Celestial Realm for his thoughts.

.

He gets mornings like this sometimes. But somehow, it was particularly rough today. 

With his eyes closed, he almost wishes that he could just go back to sleep. Forget everything and all his responsibilities for once.

(He doesn’t. Father taught him otherwise. Responsibility is a heavy burden that he must wear.)

His limbs feel like its been filled with lead, heavy with something that he can’t quite place his finger on. Voice still half-muffled from the allure of sleep, he makes his way down the hallway to the kitchen.

“Good morning.”

He nods at you, coughing into the palm of his hands. You look at him for a moment, searching for something in his expression. He arches an eyebrow, placing a hand on the table as you slide over a mug of coffee.

“Kitchen duty?” His words sound slurred even to his own ears as he made his way around the table. There was a crick in his neck that didn’t seem to be going away.

“Correct.” You say, hip jutting out as you point the spatula at him. You’re busy, fiddling with the pan as you move about the kitchen. “Sit down there, I’ll whip something up.”

His mouth opens with the intent of rejecting your offer but you pin him with a pout. He sits down at the end of the table.

“Where are the rest?” His mind hadn’t cleared up enough to separate dreams from reality, and his eyes dragged over your figure – clad in a too-big shirt that you probably stole from one of the brothers as your sock-clad foot pads over the space.

It’s stretched and tattered, he realises as you close the gap. He briefly imagines the thought of you wearing his own before shaking them away. He catches a whiff of something warm and buttery, his gaze trailing down to the pan of fluffy scrambled eggs you hold.

You smell delectable, something straight out of his imagination. Ah, this must be a dream, he concludes in the end. Only something so serene could exist in the depths of his mind, and never in reality.

You stand before him, entirely in reach. A cosy haze still envelops him, muddying his thoughts and he thinks and thinks–

“–Do you want any sauce with that?” You break his thoughts with that gentle tone of yours, peering close at his expression. He couldn’t help himself, suddenly leaning forward to press a kiss to the side of your mouth.

“Thank you.” He feels tingly as if this was what he was meant to do. He rises to his full height, watching as your lips slightly parted, with your eyes widening in surprise. 

He ducks down to kiss you squarely on the lips this time. 

“I’ll have some Hellfire sauce with that.” He nods again, sitting down in his seat. A pleased smile graces his face as you walk shakily back to the corner of the kitchen and use a spell to float the bottle of sauce over to him.

Ping!

He glances down at his D.D.D. with a furrow, letting out a sigh.

Diavolo: Lucifer, are you reaching RAD soon?

He pauses, looking at the plate of food in front of him. He didn’t know dreams were so realistic nowadays, mimicking his schedule down to a T. 

With a yawn, he scans the room looking for your figure. Surprisingly, you were nowhere to be seen, traces long gone from his sight. What a shame. He wanted to say his goodbyes even if it was only a dream.

.

Within minutes, he’s shuffling out into the cold early morning air grunting as he holds the container of food close to his chest. For some reason, he decides to kick a stone that was in his way and that sends a flock of birds flying out of the way.

That breaks the haze he was in, realisation jolting him out of his skin.

Goodness gracious, he thinks. Everything is out of order. He leans down with his head in his hands, setting the container in his lap.

“Fuck.” He finally mutters out loud in the silence.

A bird caws back at him, mocking him in his stupidity. 

[logysworld]

Ouch! | Vi x Reader

You're a tattoo artist and Vi wants a tattoo.

Fluff?, suggestive, kissing, flirty, casual! F!reader.

-

Music played on the radio beside your table, balancing on the plethora of papers and pens that you had scattered around your table. A sketch was finally coming together, just a little something that popped into your mind after months of an artist's block that kept your sketchbooks dry. It was a small yet profound design, depicting two hands just shy of touch. One hand robotic and slender, ripples of metal flowing around each curve that were shaded perfectly in depth. The other appeared normal at first, but upon closer inspection revealed a tension, fingers taut and desperate, scared, as if the other hand was impossible to reach. You sketched a galaxy around the hands, streaks of the sky and swirling stars surrounding them, like the universe itself was gently forcing the hands apart.

The familiar twinkle of your door chimes echoed as someone entered the shop and you peered over your shoulder briefly, not long enough to see who came in.

"Hey, you got an appointment?" You called out, twisting the dial of the radio to lower the volume of the music with one hand while the other continued sketching.

"Do I need one? You don't look very busy in here." She said mockingly, the thump of her boots echoing around the empty room. She was right, the shop had been really really slow lately, it was just a habit to ask each time someone came in.

"Yeah you're right, have a seat on that leather chair. Could you give me a minute- sorry- what's your name?" You looked over at her as she settled into the seat, a pale and bruised (also muscular) hand running through her dark pink hair.

"Vi. And you? What's your name gorgeous?" she asked, turning sideways on the chair to manspread.

"Y/n." you replied, a blush creeping onto your cheeks. Her ice blue eyes scanned your figure when you stood up, following the sway of your hips as you walked towards her.

"Cute name. You're real cute." She tilted her head at you, a curiosity flashing in her expression.

You laughed. "How can I help you, Vi?"

"I want a tattoo. a small one, right here on my finger." She spoke low, lifting the red sleeve of her jacket and tracing the side of her left pointer finger. You noticed a tattoo on her forearm, which seemed to lead all the way up. You leaned in closer, nodding as you took in her request.

"and," her voice went quieter, almost a whisper.

"and I want it to say 'POW!', with the mark thingy on the end?" You nodded and scribbled in your sketchbook for a minute or two. Her hand dropped while you sketched and her shoulders hung slightly. You looked up at her, feeling somewhat sad at the sudden change in demeanor, leaning in even closer instinctively.

"Okay, I can do that. What's the occasion? Or... would you rather not talk about it?" You had already drawn three versions of the design in your book, facing the page towards her for approval.

"That," she said pointing at the second design, "..and its not much. Just for somethin' important to me. I'd actually rather talk about you, gorgeous." she sat forward in her seat, resting her elbows on her knees while she watched you turn away from her. You playfully scoffed at the quick switch in attitude, brushing off her previous show of vulnerability as to not make her uncomfortable. You started tracing the design on paper using the tray behind you.

"Is that so? What exactly do you want to talk about?" You span back around in your seat, now scooting closer to her and grabbing her hand. She bit on the inside of her cheek at your touch, letting her hand rest in yours as you pressed the stencil into her finger.

"With that pretty voice? And that face? I could talk about anything with you, babe."

"You use that corny line on every girl?" you cringed, smiling, eyes glued to her hand as you applied the design.

You heard a laugh, and her chest dropped further towards you.

"Mmm.. no? I only see one girl infront of me right now, and she's just. So. Fucking. Gorgeous. What else am I supposed to say?" she came closer with each word, warmth emitting from her mouth as she spoke.

"Are you gonna keep calling me that?" you rasped, not realising you were holding onto your breath. You tried to appear unfazed, but the red flush on the tips of your ears already gave Vi the sense of satisfaction she was craving.

"Yeah I might. Why? You like it?" she tucked a stray hair behind your ear, her hand lingering on the skin of your neck just below your jawline. You felt chills. she was so close, whispering as if it was sinful for anyone to hear.

You coughed and shrugged it off, pressing the design hard into her finger, causing her to sit up slightly. Her hand was calloused and rough, scarred, knuckles red and blue from fighting you presumed. A dirty bandage wrapped around her palm and ended at the wrist, frayed at the edges.

"What? Pretty girl doesn't wanna talk now? Did I get you all nervous?" her stenciled hand turned to stroke yours and she looked at you with a pout.

You pulled your hand away. She's a troublemaker for sure.

"Vi, please. I work better when im not under pressure, okay?" you sighed, turning to grab the needle and dipping it into the black ink.

"Alright, so you are nervous. Got it." So cocky, you thought. She winked at you, putting her hand in yours before you could grab it from her.

You couldn't help but laugh. "God."

"Damn, gorgeous. I know I'm all great and that, but you don't have to call me God."

"Please shut up, Vi."

"Whatever you say, pretty."

You brought the needle to her skin and started drawing over the stencil. You licked your lips and she sucked in a breath, despite her having such detailed, and definitely more painful, tattoos already painted across her arms.

Her gaze was like a heat wave, so hot and so harsh you felt like you were about to start sweating. She watched you carefully, not your hands but everything and anything else. She watched how you tilted your head back and forth to see how the tattoo looked from afar, and how your legs squeezed together everytime you did so. You bit and squeezed your lips as you pressed the needle into her. God your lips. She let her gaze lower further down, admiring the perfect tone of your skin. You really were gorgeous. She didn't even realize how long she was staring at you until she felt the sting of antiseptic being wiped across her finger.

"All done!" you beamed, standing up and walking away to clean off your needle.

She inspected the fresh tattoo.

You heard her swallow harshly, and turned to see her sad smile.

Her smile morphed quickly into mischief and she looked up at you. "Someone has fast hands."

"It comes from practice, Vi." you smiled feeling proud, turning back around to put away your equipment into their designated sections.

"Oh yeah?"

She stood up from the chair, taking a few steps forward until the space behind you felt nearly gone.

"I'm sure you practice a lot, huh?" she teased.

She raised her arm, allowing her fingers to dance on your shoulder, falling lower and lower, drawing lines on your bare skin. your breath hitched and you looked at her hand. She dropped it to rest on your hip, gripping at the skin free from your cropped tee.

"You're so pretty. Let me look at you." Her voice tickled your ear, sending a shiver through your entire body.

"Vi." Your heart rate picked up.

"Turn around, gorgeous. Please."

It sounded like a command, desperate, but soft, all at the same time. You turned to face her and she smiled, now placing both hands on your hips and squeezing gently at the start of the bone.

"Look at that pretty face."

She forced you backwards as she stepped closer, letting your lower back hit the table with a pang. Your hands came up through hers and you shyly let them lay on her chest, not daring to look into her eyes. Then, her hands left your hips and came around the backs of your thighs, wrapping and bringing you upwards onto the metal table without struggle, spreading your legs around her as she did so.

"Hmm. So pretty." she cooed. The cool of the metal felt like ice on your skin and you shivered, leaning into her. She caged her arms around you on the table and leaned forward, brushing her nose against yours.

"Can I kiss you, gorgeous?" She asked, barely audible. You looked into her eyes and she stared back at you, so so sweetly. You let yourself lean in closer, your lips touching but not together just yet. She sighed into your mouth, the tension so strong you could feel it on your tongue. When you licked your lips she pushed herself onto you and kissed you, hands now holding your jaw. The kiss was soft at first, her lips caressing yours so gently it sent a wave flutters to your chest and stomach. But, when you wrapped your hands around her neck and moaned into the kiss, she couldn't hold back a grunt. She licked into your mouth, hands on your ass as she pulled you impossibly close. You stayed just like that for a while, but a growing frustration played out in her kisses, eventually taking over her hands which were squeezing so hard you swore they could leave marks. Your back arched in response, letting Vi push you further onto the table until you had to support yourself with one hand, the other tangled in her hair.

The twinkle of your door chimes interrupted the kiss and you hesitantly pulled back, but Vi was determined, lowering her kisses to suck on your jaw and neck. You peered over her shoulder, fighting the hands which pushed you back down.

"Vi, just- one sec-"

A nice looking man stepped inside, looking at the designs on the walls before landing his eyes on you, or Vi covering you more so.

"Vi-, shit," you swore under your breath, her teeth nipping on your collarbone.

"Hey! I have an appointm- oh, SHIT, hey, it's fine! It's fine it's fine I'll come back later, tomorrow! Im so so sorry! Shit!

The door chimes clinked against eachother as he ran out and you cursed to yourself. Vi finally paused on the marking of your skin when you threw your head back in guilt.

"Hey, don't worry gorgeous. Atleast you have me."

"Shut up Vi." You rolled your eyes, bringing your hand up to flick your nail on her ear.

"Ouch!"

Any requests send in the inbox 😛 this is my first ever fic so I hope my fellow arcane family approves ♡ rizz #vi forever

[porkcutletbowl44]

The Man You Need

Simon Ghost Riley x F!Reader

Tags!: 🔞NSFW. MDNI. unprotected p in v sex(wrap it in foil before you check her oil), dirty talk, creampie, PWP, Insomnia!reader, brief mention of misogyny, semi-public sex, shower sex, reader is also kinda bratty

(Ik y'all are only here for the porn that's why the plot dies quick lmao)

A big thank you to the 200 followers and counting 🫶🏻🩷

• · ────── ·🔞🖤🔞· ────── · •

"Y'look knackered, 'aven't been sleepin' enough?"

Simon's voice forces you to stop staring at the stale scones under the heat lamp, yanking you out of that day dream of falling face first into the breakfast line to get real sleep.

"Just the usual insomnia," you reminded. "What plans do you have today?" You asked, gatherthering the last of your breakfast.

His long strides effortlessly keeping up with your shorter ones. He towers over you as you both approach the table where you both sat normally.

"Just the usual, trainin' new recruits." He answers in the same manner as you, he sits down opposite you. He stretches his long legs out under the table, his calves brushing yours.

His eyes fixed on you like little bugs on your skin, taking in every detail of your face.

"'ow long has it been since y'last slept through a night?" He asks gruffly.

"Saturday." You answered.

His jaw clenches momentarily behind the thin fabric of his balaclava, and his shoulders stiffen.

"Y'mean to tell me its been three days an' you're still functioning?" He retorts, skepticism written on his face. He knows you, and he knows how bad your insomnia gets.

"Yeah. Doesn't help when we have to wake up early."

Ghost lets out a frustrated sigh, running a gloved hand over his face.

"You can't survive on 2 or 3 hours o' sleep a day. Y'know you're pushin' it too far. You're going to collapse soon if y'don't get your sleep under control."

He's always stern when he speaks, but with you it's like he's scolding you like a child who doesn't know any better.

You do know better; you've busted your ass to get where you are. You've had to deal with everything in the book to fight to where you are now in the military, and he knows that, he's been there the majority of the time and yet he nags you everyday about something.

"Well I'm trying, Si. Melatonin doesn't work and it gives me bad headaches." You mumbled irritably.

"Doesn't work, eh? An' I can see those bags under your eyes. Headaches too..." He rubs his chin as he looks at you, his eyes calculating. "What 'ave you tried so far, love? I've told you to keep me updated."

"The sleepy tea worked for a little bit, and then it didn't. I tried running before bed, no screen time, benadryl..."

Simon grunts and leans back in his chair, listening to you list all the things you've already tried and don't work, his frustration only seems to grow with this situation— or you?

"Bloody hell. You've tried everythin', 'aven't you? Nothin' seems to work, it's as if your body just won't shut down."

Sometimes this leads to the same thing over and over again, the 'you have to sleep' or, 'why do you do this to yourself?'. You just smile and nod, because yes, you can 100% control this.

"Well, sometimes another thing works, but it's just too much of a hassle." You shrugged, sipping some vitamin water.

Simon's brows furrow as he hears your muttered words. He leans forward, his gaze intense.

"What 'other things?'"

You sometimes keep things from him, and he won't let you get away with it this time. Or, there's the other times you are blunt, disgustingly blunt. You live with a bunch of men, who do not have a filter, that alone has killed yours out of existence.

You blink, fidgeting in place. "Ahem. Me time?"

He's not dense, he knows exactly what you mean and he's not one to back down from anything that usually makes normal people squeamish or "grossed out".

"An" 'ow is it 'too much o' a hassle exactly?" He asks, a slight raise in an eyebrow.

"My hand cramps." You rolled your eyes, it was obvious, who doesn't have that problem sometimes?

He crosses his arms over his broad chest with a humored look, your honesty can be either amusing or completely looked over.

"Your hand cramps, you say? Thas a hell o' a reason."

He chuckles softly, his eyes raking over you, taking in the sight before him. His gaze is heated. Your face can feel it, it's warm, it's like he's putting your face close to a bonfire with that look. For months you two do this... This thing that borders flirty and suggestive but at the same time it doesn't quite feel like either.

"Yeah. Thinking about going down to the store."

His eyes snap up, crossed arms going lose from his chest. He's not stupid; he knows what "going down to the store" means.

"You're talkin' about goin' to get one o' those things." His voice is low, but not quite harsh. He's almost hesitant to say it out loud, but he says it with so much disdain.

You deadpan. "A vibrator, Simon. A vibrator."

The tops of his cheeks flush red beneath his balaclava at your blunt response. You giggle a little, not expecting such a reaction from Lieutenant Ghost. What's the big deal? Did guys not talk about fleshlights? Brand recommendations?

He clears his throat before speaking, a little husky and quiet. No way, are you embarrassing him with girl stuff?

"Y-yeah. One o' those." He stutters, his usual confidence wavering. "Yes, thank you, love. I realize that. I just..." He trailed off, blinking a few times.

"Y'can't be serious. You're goin' to use a toy instead o' asking for help?"

It's like he can't believe you just said that out loud, in a busy mess hall no less. This is what it took? Talking about sex toys to make him awkward?

"Uhm...yeah? I less you have a boyfriend in your pocket waiting for me." you retort.

And yikes, he didn't seem to like that. His eyes squint, probably crinkle in his nose. He paused, leaning forward in his seat, his eyes studying your face closely.

"You don't seriously think y'need a toy instead o' just asking me, do you?"

Why does he sound hurt??

Your stomach does a backflip off your intestines and into a hot tub of oil. He did not just say that. You must be asleep, yes, you must be dreaming.

You giggled, "Good one."

Simon gives a low grumble, his jaw flexing and grinding. This apparently wasn't a laughing matter to him. Is he serious? Your tongue works over your teeth, trying your absolute hardest to be so cool, nonchalant, you don't care you don't care—

"'M not jokin', love. You don't honestly think that a toy would be better than the real thing, do you?"

Of course it's not fucking better. But what choices did you have? Sleep with one of your teammates and then get a dishonorable discharge? Make things awkward in your team?

"Oh... Considering it's illegal to have relationships, yes. A vibrator won't leave me, cheat on me, break my heart... It's perfect." You shrugged— it was for the best anyways.

He knew the rules just as much as you did. And he followed them religiously. What the hell is going on? Why would he just suggest that out of the blue?

"Y'think you'd be better off with a piece o' silicone than takin' the chance on me?"

You pinch your thigh under the table. Nope. You're still here in mess hall, in front of your now cold breakfast, and Simon is still trying to convince you to fuck him.

"Y'wouldn't be satisfied with that thing. You'd get bored, love..." He sounds so sure, and jealous when he speaks of the horrible, terrible, vibrator.

"How would you know?" You quired quickly.

Just to double check. Maybe the sleep deprivation was catching up.

"I know 'cause I know you. You'd get tired o' that thing eventually, you'd want somethin' real."

He paused for a moment, his eyes lidding, darkening, consuming.

"You'd want someone to touch you, love. Not some piece o' plastic an' silicone."

"Yeah, like I'd ever get that," you barked out a laugh out of sheer nerves.

He didn't like that anymore than your last dismissive reply, you may just be convinced about now. So, cue to you squeezing your thighs together in your seat. Acting completely normal. Because everything about this is so normal; your coworker just telling you to come to him for a good fuck to be able to sleep.

"What do y'mean by that? 'ow can you say that with a straight face? Y'don't think anyone would want to touch you? Let y'know 'ow loved you are?" He grumbled, his hands clenching on top of the table.

"Y'think you're so undesirable that nobody would want you? Bloody hell..." He shakes his head.

"Simon, take a look at me." You licked your lips to prevent a shout of frustration, yikes, you do need sleep.

Simon's eyes fly over your form, from head to toe. He took his time studying you, his eyes lingering over the curves of your body, the way your hair fell over your face. There isn't a damn thing wrong with the way you look.

"'M lookin' at ya, love. An' what I see is perfection. So tell me again... what's your damn point?"

Oh, good God. It's real. But this is better than you imagined; you want to make him work for it. All because it's hotter to get a man to work for something, get all riled up.

"What do you see? A cutesy little girly girl? A nice little housewife for a big strong man?" You asked sarcastically.

"I see a woman who's strong, capable, an' bloody beautiful." He glares, offended you'd even think about saying that, "You're not some dainty damsel in distress, you're a force to be reckoned with..."

"My point exactly. Men don't want a chick that's more man than them." You rolled your eyes at just mentioning the delicacy of fragile masculinity these days.

Simon grunted and rolled his eyes, his irritation building into something you might not want to poke at.

"Thas where you're wrong, love." He points his spoon at you. "Not all men are as narrow-minded as y'think. I know damn well I want a woman like you. Strong, feisty, sexy."

"My point, Simon! I don't want some fucking pussy, I want someone whose more man than me." You huff.

You're not entirely implying this trait about him... You just wanna see him work for it.

"You're not goin' to find that in a bloody toy, love. You're lookin' in the wrong place if y'think some plastic will make y'feel better. Y'want a man? You already 'ave a man."

He was right there, willing to give you what you needed. But how far will he go?

"Yeah but... I want something real, too." You tried to explain.

This flirting back and forth was something you enjoyed; but what would it mean in the long run?

"Exactly." He huffed a bit exasperated. "Y'want somethin' real. Somethin' I can give you."

He shifted in his seat, leaning closer to you, his eyes deep and intense.

"Y'don't need a toy, love. You 'ave me. 'M real, an' I want you. Don't settle for some piece o' plastic when y'know damn well what you really want."

Okay then, schizophrenic, game on.

"I want someone stronger than me, someone to give me a reason to act like a woman," You snorted.

You were infuriating at times.

"An' y'think I can't give ya that? Y'think I can't make y'feel like a woman? Like a fuckin' queen?" That retort comes out low, accusing. "I can definitely make y'feel like a woman. Y'don't need someone stronger than you, love. Y'just need me."

Nail on the head with that one; yet how far can you take it? You lean between your elbows, squeezing your tits together to make you look as enticing as possible.

"Do I?" You purr.

Simon freezes in time, his plastic spoon almost falling away from his thick fingers. His hand does scramble for it to his credit but he almost dumps his bowl in the process. You hear him clear his throat roughly, Adams apple bobbing at the hem of his mask before it disappears. You bite your lip with a challenging gaze, would he take it?

"Yes," He replied firmly to cover up his hesitation, "Y'need me, love. Y'just don't know it yet. I can make y'feel things no toy ever could. Think y'need a man t'make you feel like a woman? I can do that, an' I will happily."

You smirk, "You're gonna have to try harder than that,"

"Oh, I will, love. You're just askin' for a challenge, aren't you?"

"You afraid to take it?" You shot back slyly.

He was anything but afraid with that look. He was up for the challenge, and you know he's gonna prove it.

"Baby, 'm not afraid o' anythin' when it comes to you," he replied, his voice low and husky. "As long as you can take what I can give you."

He leaned forward in his seat, his eyes searing into yours. There was danger in his gaze, it only made it all the more delicious.

"Y'think you can 'andle me, love? Y'think you're ready for what I can do t'you?"

"Only if you can prove it." You grin.

Ghost let out a low growl, his eyes darkening at your challenging tone. He thrived on it, it only fueling his drive to prove himself to you.

"Oh, I'll prove it, love. I'll prove it again an' again until y'can't even think straight."

"No, no, prove you're more man than me." You corrected easily.

"Y'want to know why 'm more o' a man than you? I can make y'feel things you 'aven't even imagined before. I'll 'ave you beggin' f'me, addicted t'me."

"I'll be waiting, then." You set the challenge in stone. This was it.

The bear has been poked enough. He was on a mission now.

"You'll be beggin' f'me before the night's over." He boasts smoothly, a promise and a warning all in one.

"If I get a good night's sleep I'll consider keeping you,"

You were maddening, and he both loved and hated the way you pushed his buttons. It was all in good heart; for the most part.

"You're already keepin' me, love. Y'just don't know it yet."

You bite your lip, taking a quick survey of the area before replying. This was getting too good to be true.

"Don't disappoint then, we have..." You glance at your watch, humming, "six hours until lights out."

"Thas more than enough time." He grunts, all smug and cocky behind his mask.

Step one, getting recruit work out of the way. It's boring as fuck, mostly watching the Lieutenant scare the absolute piss out of the fresh meat.

Simon was barking orders left and right, ruthless to the soldiers in training. Almost as ruthless as the sun beating down on them.

You abandoned your spot in the shade, clip board in hand. You balance two water bottles on the wooden board as you approach to offer a beverage.

"Thanks," he grumbles, his eyes darting around to ensure no one witnessed the small gesture just like you.

He took the offered water, downing half the bottle in one go and adjusting his mask back in place. You drag your pin down the clip board to check off what's already done.

"Forty laps?"

"Forty laps."

Simon confirmed with a gruff nod, his gaze lingering on yours for a moment before turning back to the recruits. Despite the challenging heat, he refused to end the training drills early no matter how much you teased him about buying him a little extra on your toy run— Viagra.

You thought it was hilarious, him? Not so much.

"An' they better pick up the pace!" He barked, the deep baritone easily reaching the pirvates' ears.

You circle that box, "And the sixty pull ups?" You breathed a bored sigh.

Simon grunted in annoyance.

"Done."

He informed in a low grumble, his jaw working under the balaclava. It was an excessive amount, but many of the recruits wouldn't even make it halfway through. But he didn't care, he was in a mood. A horny one. When was the last time this guy got laid?

"Wasn't accepting any half-assed attempts, either."

"The rope climbing?" You tap your pen at the box.

Simon glances down at the list, eyeing the scribbles and doodles next to the ticked boxes.

"Done." He replies simply.

You could faintly hear the sound of the recruits groaning and grumbling in pain and exhaustion, you almost felt bad. It was minor flashbacks to your recruitment days, yet Simon didn't seem to have that same sympathy judging by the satisfaction in his eyes.

"Aaannnd... Combat." You hum, one last task left for training.

This was where things get interesting.

"Its last. Need to let 'em rest a bit first. Suppose they earned it."

"Generous," you comment blandly.

"Yeah, yeah. Just keep checkin' off the list. I wanna get these fuckin' recruits dismissed soon. 'M sick o' the heat."

The day dragged on painfully slowly. The heat was relentless until the rain would show up any minute, and he was more irritable than usual. Even the recruits seemed to notice his foul mood, giving him a wide berth whenever he was in their vicinity. You were starting to grow bored of his usual job of scaring the hell out of the recruits, (not so bored when sweat rolls down the thickness of his biceps and the bounce of his tits when he jogs up to the trainees to yell at them) and overall wondering when and how the fuck you're supposed to get laid at this point.

Finally, the training was over. The sun was starting to dip below the horizon, casting a warm orange glow over the compound. The recruits limped and hobbled their way to their assigned lodgings, exhausted and sore.

Simon, on the other hand, seemed like he had even more energy than usual. Despite the long, grueling day, he was somehow wired and restless. You should ask what energy drink he uses after you wrap this up. (Hint: it's the male drive to get some pussy).

As the recruits dispersed, one in particular caught your eye. He was the most arrogant and obnoxious of the bunch, strutting around like he owned the place. You and Simon had seen it countless times before, it got old fast.

"Arrogant little prick," Simon muttered irritably.

You tongue your cheek, "What? Threatened by him?"

It's a pointless taunt— Simon? Threatened? Gosh, it's so fun to get men worked up. Simon's eyes narrow at your comment, a grunt bursting out from him.

"Threatened? Me? Fuckin' hell, no." He grumbles offendedly. "I could take 'im apart within a minute. Can't stand the ones caught up in their own 'ead,"

You hum in agreement. You know for a fact you'd pay to see that one day, and Soap would be right behind you.

"You're lucky you're the most tolerable person 'ere," he adds goodnaturedly.

You backhand his shoulder lightly, "Oh, look, your best friend is coming over!"

And speak of the devil, the recruit struts over with that piece of shit arrogant smirk. Simon rolls his eyes in annoyance as he turns to face the strutting recruit.

"Great. Just what I need," The sarcasm is laid on thicker than the suspicious gravy served this morning at breakfast.

The recruit saunters over, his obnoxious confidence on full display. Simon clenches his jaw, trying to keep his temper in check.

"Sir... Do we have more extensive training available?" He asks slowly, his own ego taking a hold of his tongue.

Simon's eye twitches at the recruit's pompous tone. Extensive training, more like a request for special treatment to feed that ego.

"Extensive training?" He echos roughly, "F'you? Why?"

The recruit shrugs boredly, "I think your ways are a bit old fashioned, too easy,"

Easy, old fashioned? This cocky little bastard doesn't know the first thing about hard work. And he's about to serve himself his very own buffet of living hell from Simon. You distract yourself with the grass below your feet, taking everything you have to not laugh.

"Y'think we make things easy on you?" He sneers, taking a step closer to the recruit. "Y'think you're hot stuff, eh? Well, you're in for a rude awakening, rookie."

Your lips purse, frowning deeply to stop the smile.

"What makes y'think you deserve anythin' beyond the standard training regime, hmm? You 'aven't earned a fuckin' thing yet." He glares at the recruit, his eyes dark and intense behind his mask. "Y'get your fuckin' arse to the barracks. Your extensive training for the next month? You'll be cleanin' the bathrooms before lights out."

The recruit's smirk falters at Simon's orders. He's not used to being talked back to, much less being told what to do. But he tries to maintain his cocky attitude, not wanting to back down in front of you, maybe. Ugh, men.

"Bathroom duty? That's... a little degrading, isn't it?"

Simon chuckles darkly, his eyes dancing with amusement. This cocky bastard was really pushing his luck more than you were. You almost feel bad if it weren't so funny.

"Degrading?" he sneers. "Welcome to the military, rookie. It's not a goddamn country club. Y'think you can come 'ere, demand extra training, an' expect special treatment? This ain't a playground. You're 'ere to learn discipline, not stroke your ego."

You stifle a laugh behind your clipboard. This was too good, and all the more hot to see Simon angry.

Simon shoots a sidelong glance at you, even though he's supposed to be acting tough and intimidating, he seems to let himself crack through the lieutenant role around you.

The recruit, on the other hand, doesn't notice your amusement. He just looks sulkily at Simon, clearly not pleased with the prospect of bathroom duty.

Simon grabs the recruit roughly by the collar, the display of power and dominance making you jump in place. Simon's firm grip on the recruit's collar startles the cocky little punk, his eyes wide in surprise.

"See, this is your problem," Simon grits lowly. "Y'think you're untouchable. Y'think you're better than everyone else. But lemme tell you somethin', wanker... you're not."

The recruit stammers, eyes frozen with fear.

"Disobey your superior officer again an' I'll make sure your walls are covered in you."

He gives the recruit a rough shove, releasing his collar. The recruit stumbles back, shocked out of words.

"Consider that your final warning," Simon growls. "Now get your arse to the fuckin' barracks, rookie."

The recruit seems to shrink under Simon's intimidating aura, his cocky demeanor shattered and squashed to dust. He mumbles a half-hearted, "Yes, sir," before hurrying away.

You check your watch, "Well, today has been fun. It's too bad you only have three hours left."

Three hours left, you say? He hadn't even started yet. Because of training, of course.

"Three hours, huh?" He grumbles, eyes setting in determination. "Don't count me out yet, love. I can do a lot in three hours."

"Hurry it up, or in three hours I'll have a brand new shiny vibrator." You grin cheekily.

"You won't be needin' any damn vibrator if I 'ave anythin' to say 'bout it," he hisses. "I don't need any bloody gadgets to 'elp out."

He starts to stalk towards you, his eyes intense and focused. Your thighs squeeze together, pleased with your outcome.

"Three hours is more than enough time f'me to prove myself, love. An' you'll be beggin' before the clock strikes, guarantee ya that."

"Right," you drawl with a roll of your eyes.

He reaches up with a rough hand, grabbing your chin and lifting it so your eyes meet his.

"Y'think I can't prove myself in three hours, huh? That I need some bloody toy to 'elp me out? I promise you, love, you'll be singin' a different tune."

You giggle teasingly, biting your tongue through your smile.

"Tick tock, Simon." You singsong.

You were mocking him, challenging him, all for this purpose.

"You're playin' a dangerous game, love," he growls down at you, "Y'think you can tease an' walk away with that pretty lil smile on your face. But you're gonna find out real quick that I won't back down, even when you're being a cheeky lil minx."

You smirk dreamily, staring up at him with raw want. You kinda want him to do something extravagant, proving himself just because. When was the last time you had fun like this?

"You're pushing your luck, love," he grunts, his voice gruff with barely concealed desire. "If you keep lookin' at me like that, there ain't gonna be enough time to do everythin' I wanna do to you."

You pull from his hand, turning on your heel as you call over your shoulder,

"I'll be waiting, Si,"

You were taunting him, teasing him, with that sultry little comment and casual tone. You feel his eyes on your ass with each sway of your hips, that naked feeling let's you know he's undressing you with his eyes.

You whip out your phone to look at the time, alas, there's just no way what you want can happen. The rules, regulations, and the severe lack in privacy.

Shooting Captain a quick text for permission to leave base for an hour you head into the higher up showers for some much needed washing of the sweat collected on your body.

As you toss your towel on the bend, your phone buzzes.

'Permission granted. I'll let the team know you'll be out.'

Your heart drops to your ass as you frantically text back—

'Wait no that's not necessary!!!!!'

And then, to your horror, you get a ping in the group text.

Shit.

The team knows youre just going out, but Simon knows. Simon knows you're chickening out from the challenge.

"Fuck!" You hiss, frantically looking around the showers as if there were anything that could help you.

There's nothing. Not the gathered pubes in the moldy shower drain nobody uses, not the faded rusting lockers, not the dirty windows that nobody will ever be able to see out of no matter how much scrubbing

You're fucked.

But how fucked, do we wager? Does this mean Simon will get in his feelings and never talk to you again? Will he out you? (No, it wouldn't ever—) What if he gets revenge?... What kind of revenge?

As you stand there, panic setting in, a voice rings out from the entrance of the shower area.

"What 'appened to three hours?"

You squeak as the door slams, the deadbolt echoing through the room.

You are locked in the showers with Simon.

"What's with the sudden cold feet?" Simon grunts as he rounds the corner, closing the distance between you in slow, measured strides.

"I-I can explain—" you stammer, phone dropping on the bench next to your towel.

He stalks towards you, his steps slow and deliberate. There's a dangerous edge to his gaze that makes your heart beat even faster in your chest.

You're trapped, unable to back away, and he looms over you like a caged beast.

"Explain why you're runnin' away from the challenge you issued, love?" he drawls, stopping just a few feet away from you. "This I 'ave to 'ear."

He crosses his arms as he stands there, his eyes never leaving your face. You're in for it now, his expression seems to say.

You chuckle nervously, gesturing between the two of you, "I mean, realistically it can't ever happen—"

"Who says it can't?" He leans in, his voice dropping to a low, rough growl. "I don't care 'bout the damn regulations, love. That's not gonna stop me from 'aving you."

"Y-You are all about the rules, Si. You follow them to a T— You wouldnt—" you swallow thickly. What have you done to yourself this time.

"I usually follow the rules, yes," he concedes tauntingly, "An' right now, those rules are fuck all to me anymore."

Your tongue suddenly feels heavy in your mouth, "W-What about—"

Simon leans a forearm over your head and slouches down, his eyes darkened by lust and determination.

"What 'bout...?" he mocks, "Y'think I give a damn 'bout those old geezers with their rules right now? All I care 'bout is 'aving you, 'ere an' now."

Simon's free hand reaches up, his fingers lightly tracing your jawline. "I'll show you 'm fuckin' man enough to 'ave you."

While you are speechless, he adds for you to better understand. "It's just you an' me in 'ere."

"But—" you squeak.

Simon's hand moves quick to cup your chin, tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

"No," he growls, "We don't need to follow the rules in 'ere. We don't need anyone's permission. We could be loud, we could be rough. No one would ever know."

No one... Would know.

He leans in, his lips hovering just centimeters from your ear. "Just us in 'ere. You tellin' me you'd rather 'ave some stupid fuckin' toy over a man that can fill you up all night long?" His hand slides down to your throat, holding you tenderly but firmly, "Just say yes, love."

You whimper in delight, his eyes flickering down to your shifting thighs.

"Yeah," he purrs, his hand angling your head up against the wall. "Y'know you want it. Y'want me."

You want him more than sleep. You want him more than some real fucking food.

"Y'know you don't need anythin' else but me t' fuck you stupid."

"Yes," you moan.

Simon's eyes gleam with approval, his grip on your chin tightens slightly.

"That's good fuckin' girl," he growls.

He licks your neck through the mask, chest expanding with a deep inhale that crushes you to the wall.

"Say y'want me," he demands in a gravelly whisper.

What is thinking? Why would you have to think?

"Want you s'bad," you whine.

"Fuckin' right you do," he mutters.

His other hand drifts down, slowly tracing down your body until it lands on your waist, shoving you into the shower stall. For a moment, you thought you were going to get a little groping, made a knead here and there. But no, you're just standing like a dumbass in the empty shower stall.

"Strip." He growls.

Your skin erupts with gooseflesh in the bare shower shall, his gaze unwavering as he waits for his private show. He steps closer, his own clothes still on, thick arms folding over his chest.

"Slowly," he commands, "Show me what's gonna be mine."

You pinch the hem of your cargos, and then switch to your shirt.

What the hell do you even start with?

"Trousers first," Simon instructs roughly.

He stands there, still dressed, but his eyes devouring every inch of you as you slowly pop the button.

You slowly shimmy the waist band over the swell of each hip, pushing down to your ankles. Simon's breaths grow heavier as you flick the material off your feet his eyes transfixed on the movement.

"Thas it. Bra next," he commands, velvety smooth, "Nice n' slow. I want t'see all o' you."

Bra? Bra next? Why not your shirt?

You kick the cargos away, your shirt barely covering over your panties as you unclasp the bra through your shirt and maneuver it out from one of the sleeves to hold it in the tip of your finger.

Simon's eyes zero in on your pebbled nipples and pretty panties, the thin fabric doing little to hide your curves.

"Good girl," he purrs, "Now come 'ere."

You're... You're not even done. He motions with his fingers for you to approach him, his eyes dark with need.

"Do the thing," you manage out.

"The thing?" he grunts in an enticing voice, taking a step forward as you gesture to your mouth and nose.

He reaches up and pulls the mask to his nose, revealing his lips.

"Is this what y'want, love?" he asks, running his tongue across his bottom lip.

"Yeah," you breathe as you wet your lips.

Those would taste so good. You just know it.

"Y'want to see m' mouth, huh?" he asks, a smirk playing at the corners of those now revealed lips that show his canines, a chipped tooth, his lower face in general in its scarred glory, "Y'want to see what I can do, love?"

He closes the remaining space between you in a single stride, grabbing you by the back of the neck and yanking you forward.

His free hand grips your jaw, tilting your head up to meet his gaze, his eyes filled with dark hunger that makes your pussy pulse.

His mouth descends on yours, his lips claiming yours in a fiercely possessive kiss. You moan lowly, one of your arms circling his thick waist. He's burning up, hot and sweaty under his clothes that reek of his natural musk.

One of your curious hands ventures down, squeezing at his ass. He breaks the kiss with a surprised grunt, a coy smirk.

"Naughty, that," he huffs, "But I like it. My turn,"

The world before you lunges back, his mouth descending on your neck. He sucks and bites at the sensitive skin, his teeth leaving red marks in their wake.

His hands have a rough exploration, sliding down your skin, pausing just above the waistband of your panties to slide in to the globes of your ass. You stand in your tip toes to lean into him, whimpering at his rough gropes and kneading.

His mouth continues it's path down your neck, his teeth grazing the tops of your covered tits as his hands roughly squeeze and massage your perfect ass.

"Look at you," he growls, "Squirmin' an' I haven't even started."

He pushes your ass up, looking over your shoulder to watch it bounce. His hands slide lower, pulling the elastic of your panties down slightly, "Look at this," he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. "You're fuckin' soaked through."

And he's right.

You squeeze your thighs, trying to rid that sticky mess thats unbearably uncomfortable. He tuts, delivering a slap to your ass.

"Tryin' to get yourself off, love?" he purrs, his fingers tracing along the edge of your panties.

You can't tell the difference between the onyx color from his pupils, you can hardly look at his eyes when his mouth is right there and his own tits are in your face. God, you want to nibble on those chapped lips, feel those fat biceps squeeze you as his hips snap on the backs of your thighs—

He backs you up, his hard cock pressing against you through his jeans, "Y'want it?"

"Yes!" You mewl.

"Thas what I like to 'ear, love," he husks, his fingers playing with the crotch of your panties. "Get that shirt off, wanna see those pretty tits finally."

You squirm, pulling your shirt up and off and throwing it somewhere that doesn't matter right now.

"Perfect," he rasps, his hand reaching up to cup your breast, "These are fuckin' nice,"

You arch, eyes rolling at the nice kneading to your sore flesh of being stuck in a bra all day. To your displeasure, freezing water sprays down your body and your uncomfortable groan bounces off the walls until the water warms up.

He's still fully dressed though, his clothes sticking to his muscular frame, accentuating every hard muscle and scar.

"Shower's a bit shitty," he says, his eyes raking your body. "But we don't 'ave to wait for that to get goin'."

Your panties have disappeared into his pocket, you follow the way his fingers shove it in— Your eyes divert to that large bulge behind the zipper.

"I know what y'want," he grunts, his hand moving to the belt and zipper.

Simon pulls down his zipper, the metal teeth parting revealing a black pair of boxers, which does little to hide the already impressive outline of his hard cock nudging up against the waist band.

He pushes his jeans down his thick thighs, his body still clothed in a tight black shirt and underwear drenched in water.

Your saliva glands burn at the sight of his happy trail plunging past the waist band, eyeing that nice size you only got a little feel of on your leg—

"Want a closer look?" he purrs, his hand slowly palming the base of his covered cock, precum bleeding out from the thin fabric on his thigh.

You make a face at him, your face burning with embarrassment

"What's the matter, love? You shy now?" he says with a smirk, his hand continuing to slowly palm and squeeze, "Y'were all full o' attitude today."

His head tilts mockingly, stroking himself for you, enticing you. Pinch yourself again, this might actually be a dream—

"Go on," he rasps, "Feel me."

You follow a trail of water down to his shirt clinging to his body, his drenched happy trail, and then the outline of his cock.

With one hand, you tug the waist band forward, clenching as he sucks in a breath that makes his abs tense.

He leans forward, his mouth hovering over your ear, "Go on," he husks, "Take it out, love."

He leans back, watching you intently, waiting for you to do as told. Maybe you do like to be told what to do in this context. With your other, you pull him free with your eager hand.

He moans, he fucking moans.

"Thas it, love," he husks out, his voice a little strangled. "Feel me up."

His hands rest on the wall behind you, caging you in. He hips rock into your hand, each stroke of your fist pulling the foreskin back.

"You're so big," you whimper.

Simon lets out a deep, gravelly groan as you speak. It just might be the hottest sound you've ever heard. Right next to the time he was lifting heavy dumbbells, letting all those grunts and growls loose.

He looks down at you, his gaze burning with lust and need, "You want it, baby?" he asks, his hips grinding against your hand harder, "Want this big dick?"

"Want it so bad, Si," you mumbled against his lips, your tongue darting out to lick his teeth.

his mouth claiming yours in a rough, passionate kiss. His tongue immediately tangles with yours, his teeth biting and tugging at your lower lip.

"I know you do," he grunts, his tongue slipping past your lips to slide against yours before speaking again, "You've been eye-fucking me all afternoon, love."

His hands start to wander along your body, mapping your curves with rough caresses,

"You're gonna get it," he husks.

One of his hands moves down to your hip as he moves lower, his mouth following the curve of your throat, leaving a trail of hot, wet kisses and bites.

"Want m'cock in that pretty pussy? Or your mouth?"

Where do you fucking think, smart guy?

"In me, inside me, please," you mewl.

His massive paws squeeze your hips to spin you around, planting your hands against the wall.

"Bend over," he growls, his eyes roaming over your body, "'M gonna give you what y'want."

His hands on your hips start to maneuver your body, making you arch your back and hips out.

He runs a hand up your spine, "So pretty," he murmurs as he takes in the sight of your body bent and on display for him.

He steps up behind you, his body flush against your back, his clothes still fucking on and wet and sticking to your body.

"Gonna fill ya up nice n' good," he sucks on his teeth with a low growl, "Been thinkin' o' me all day 'aven't you?"

His hips rock against your ass slowly, his bare cock rubbing on your supple skin.

His hands massage your ass, kneading and squeezing the flesh as you lean on your forearms, moaning as the blunt head notches to your dripping slit.

"Want m'hands all over you," Simon growls against your flesh, his rough palms skimming over your curves, "Mm, relax, yeah? Nice n' easy— Yeah, thas a good girl,"

His hips do a slow, deliberate grind, rocking into you to make room for him as he moves his lips along the curve of your shoulder.

There's slow shallow thrusts, working you open until he takes a deep stroke down to the base. Fuck, he's thick all over, heavy even inside your walls. If you had the brain power, you'd reach below and hold his balls.

"You're so damn gorgeous," he husks darkly, his breath hot against your skin, "I wanted this since I first saw you."

He's so intense he's burning a hole through you with his gaze, his hands still exploring your body, worshiping every curve, every dip, every inch of you.

His hands slide down to the front of your thighs, coaxing your legs further apart, opening you up for him.

"I knew I wanted you the moment you walked in," he breathes, "I knew you'd feel amazing under my hands."

Your cheek presses into the shower wall with a strangled moan,

"S'deep,"

Simon growls at your moan and pushes into you with more force, his hands squeezing your ass to yank you back, spearing you over and over on his cock.

"Fuckin' knew you'd feel s'tight an' good,"

His hand presses on your lower tummy, mouth hot and panting against your shoulder blade. He grabs the back of your hand, his fingers threading through yours and pressing it against the wall.

"Take it, take—this—cock,"

You choke out a moan, slumping against the wall, "please, so close, so close—"

"You gonna come f'me, huh?" he asks, his voice raw and breathless.

It's a lovely sound on him.

"Yes, please, wanna come, haven't came this fast before—" you beg.

He lets out a ragged, possessive growl at your words, his hips piston roughly against your ass, full balls swinging on your clit over and over.

"Come on, pet," he snarls, deft fingers twirling tight circles around your clit.

You whimper loudly, hands sliding down the slick shower walls, hips straining for him as you come hard with a broken mewl.

"That's it, fuck—"

He breaks off in a gutteral moan, hips stilling as he spills inside you. Simon catches you as your legs buckle out from under you, scooping you up against his chest to lean you back against the wall.

You don't even know what just happened in the span of 5 minutes. He's panting hard, his heart pounding against your back.

"Fuck," he growls, burying his face in the crook of your neck, "Fuckin' perfect, love,"

You smile lazily back at him, pawing at his shoulders to pull him in a soft languid kiss, his lips claiming yours in soft, sweet caresses. He melts against your touch, the fierce need from earlier receding now that you're sated. He returns your lazy kiss, his hands gently roaming up and down your back.

"Bloody hell," he mutters against your lips, "Fuckin' perfect, woman." He nips at your neck, "'M not done yet."

Looks like he is the cure to your sleeping problem.

[reverieblondie]

I already sent this thought to someone, but I think you might like it, too!

Tiefling bachelors accidentally scratching up the surfaces they were bracing their hands on while engaged in a moment of carnal passion with his partner, like not small superficial scratches, I mean his claws left gouge marks. Imagine he is all nervous/embarrassed about it only for his partner to inform him that is actually incredibly hot.

I look forward to seeing your thoughts (if you desire to share them).

A/N: This took me forever! But I loved every second it was so fun! these scenario ones are always my favorites! I love love the Tiefling bachelors but I wanted to add some of my moots OCs that I love. We have Kieran from @dark-and-kawaii wonderful mind (thank you for the screenshot and thank you for making this man I am obsessed!) We also have Syvaris who I instantly fell for when I saw him on the discord server made by @tealfling (He is so dreamy and I am so happy for @faerunsbest oc Dwylla for snatching up that tall man, also thank you for the photo to use!) Hope you enjoy its all 18+! MDNI!

Rolan

"Your... A- Ah~ Annoying,  you know that?" Rolan growls in your ear as his claws dig into the sides of your thighs. All you can manage is a breathy giggle that turns into a whine as he pushes into your wet core deeper. The ridges stretch you as he sinks deeper, Rolan's brows are furrowed, and his eyes shut tight as he feels you clench on his cock like a vise. "So…so… tight… per-perfect," his voice mumbles as he gets lost in the feeling. This is a far cry from how he was acting earlier, you had been bothering him all day with countless pointless questions, touching his arms and hands, then acting oh so innocent about it. The last straw had been when you barged into his office and sat on his desk, hiking up your dress to show just a teasing hint of your thighs, of course, in an effort to interrupt his oh-so-important studies. Rolan was definitely taking out some built up frustrations when he finally broke. Grabbing you by your waist, Rolan pushes you down on the desk and finally kisses you; it is desperate, hungry, and completely perfect. You didn't think Rolan was ever going to stop kissing you, not until he started talking about how you drive him crazy. Now, here you lay back on the desk as Rolan's long nails scratch his oak desk, and he ruts in, bouncing you to take an inch deeper with every thrust. The pleasure of the stretch is overwhelming, and then there's the sight of him over you, his golden eyes shining, and the way his hair hangs down; he is completely enthralling. You should have bothered him to this point months ago... "Rolan... you're perfect." Your sweet praise rings in Rolan's ears, making him scratch his nails deeper down his desk. You feel his tail thrashing around till it's gripping your leg like a vice; all you can keep doing is gripping his tough skin, singing his praises, making his cock throb, and you too keen further. Rolan, fueled by your praise, loses himself in you as he lifts his foot on top of the desk angling his cock to hit against your G-spot in mind-numbing bliss. Rolan's own praise continues to switch from common to infernal as he desperately chases both of your orgasms. He's been pinning for months, and now that he has you, he's desperate to please you. When he finally pushes you to that edge, it's intense. Once you have both come down from your orgasms, Rolan's face is flushed from more than just the 'workout.' He's avoiding eye contact even as you try to ask him what the matter is. "Was it me?" you finally muster as you feel your chest sinking. Rolan turns to you quickly, holding your naked body close to his, "It's me… I was… unhinged… you probably-" you cover his mouth with your fingers, causing him to become quiet, "You were perfect… Rolan, truly perfect." Rolan looks at his sharp nails and ruined desk, "It didn't scare you?" You lean in closer to his lips, "Only excites me…"  

Hours later, Lia brought up Rolan a late dinner (considering he had missed it earlier doing whatever). When she knocked on the door, she could have sworn she had heard hissing whispers and something being shoved. Rolan answers the door out of breath but uncharacteristically cheerful; it was suspicious... Lia looks around and sees large gashes on his desk and on his study walls. "What happened here?" She says, placing the tray down on the ruined desk; Rolan stumbles about clearing his throat till picking up a tome (one of many on the floor), "I was working on a difficult spell." Lia looks around, "I guess it's one hell of a spell…" Before she can further look around, Rolan is thanking her for the food and pushing her out. Must be very eager to get back to his work… 

Zevlor

The first thing he asked you when you came into the storage room was if anyone saw you sneak in after him. The Second question he asked you as he walked towards you from the darkness, his fiery eyes locked on yours, was if you could keep quiet." Of course "was what you promised Zevlor, and of course, at that time, you had meant it… but now that your legs are wrapped around his textured waist and his thick cock is ramming in and out of you, bouncing you against the supply shelf, you're finding it difficult not to scream his name. Zevlor is also finding it equally as difficult not to moan your name as yours as you take him in so well, your tight warmth practically sucking him in deeper as your slick walls flutter around him. Your nails bite into his shoulders with every roll of his hips. Zevlors breath is hot and heavy against your neck, his teeth threatening to bite your delicate skin as he presses sloppy kisses against you. It all just riles you up more, rolling your hips to meet his thrust pushing his hot cock to sink in deeper, nudging that sensitive spot in your cunt, forcing you to see stars. A deep groan rips from Zevlors throat as your cunt quivers on his cock with a rush of your arousal squirting onto his abdomen. In an attempt to keep himself quiet, he bites into your skin while his hands claw up and tear at the supply shelves, even forcing some things to fall and crash to the ground as his hips move erratically to chase his high. Later, he will embarrassingly apologize for acting like an animal, but you just kiss his lips and say you want to see that passion again. 

You're trying not to blush as the rest of the caravan's refugees look at the ruined shelves and materials marked by claws. When Zevlor finally shows up from being called, he gives a simple answer: "Animals must have gotten in and messed around," he says, trying to hide his smile. You promised that your rondeau tonight would happen outside the grove so you could be as loud as you like.

Cal

You could have had anyone you wanted at the party; as the hero of the hour, everyone was trying to catch your attention, but you picked him out, and Cal couldn't be happier. Cal almost feels like he can't breathe as you kiss his neck before running your tongue over his ears. You giggle as his tail twists and sways erratically, his clawed hands holding tightly onto your bedroll, carefully trying not to rip it. Cals is trying so hard not to lose control, but little does he know that's exactly what you're after. Cal has always been so sweet and strong… All you want him to do is to let go and finally release all that built-up tension. So after much soft teasing with sweet whispered desires, you reward when Cal finally snaps, taking you in his arms and kissing you like he's never going to see you again. You, of course, were soft to start… but your want can make you ravenous as Cal's hands ran over your body; of course, it led to you stripping him in a fever, eager to feel his hot hands all over your skin, caressing your sides, teasing your inner thighs, and twisting your breast… You just couldn't help it anymore when you finally pushed him down to sink onto his girth. Cal's clawed hands rip fistfuls of your bedroll apart as you bounce on his cock; he eagerly matches your pace with his hips ramming up into your wet cunt, making your eyes roll in ecstasy. Your sweet Cal looks up at you with half-lidded eyes concentrating on your pleasure, he wants to please you, and when you bring his hand to circle your clit he's in bliss. Your cunt clenches down harder on his thick cock, making a growl rip from his throat as he tries not to cum too quickly.  But then you start begging… begging for him to cum inside and claim you as his. With a moan and a loud tear, you feel him cum in hot spurts that make you desperate for more of him. Later, Cal will be so embarrassed and nervous about ripping up your bedroll; of course, he offers to give you his, but you just smirk, "I don't mind it all ripped up; it's a good reminder of you for the road."  

The next day, as you're packing up your things, still feeling quite melancholy about the tiefling departure, you're about to pack up your ruined bedroll when a clearing of a throat causes you to turn. It's Halsin, and in his hands, he has a bedroll. You look at him confused, and he just smiles. "Heard from a blushing young man that you needed a new one." Of course, Cal wouldn't leave you with a ruined one. During your small reverie of thinking about Cal, Astarion walks past with a smirk, "Hope it's claw proof, that or get that teif some claw covers for next time." 

Dammon

His forked tongue licks at your dripping sweat as it rolls down your throat. Dammon pins you against the back wall as one hand holds your hips as the other keeps him steady leaning you both steady. His weight presses against your body as his thick cock stretches you open. Your hands and legs wrap tightly around him as he fucks you in the back of the forge. You had been so needy and couldn't wait for him to take you upstairs, you needed him now. So thus leading to you two tangled together in the back of the shop. You're both nude and sweating as the forge fire roars. As you chant his name Dammons pace gets rougher, his cock slamming in so deep you begin to see stars. Feeling your tight warmth starting to clench on his cock has his mind going blank. First, you feel his sharp nails on your hip pierce your skin, then you hear the scratching down the stone wall as his hips get faster, the pace getting sloppier but never relenting. Dammon always knows how to give you exactly where you need it every time. His breathing is rough and shallow in your ear before he lets out a dark growl, "Cum on my cock. So I can fucking fill you..." Dammon is rarely so demanding, but you just can't help yourself when he is. Dammon comes to bed later rather quietly… when you ask him about it, he says he's embarrassed for getting so rough, when will he learn that's your favorite…

The customer looks at the back of the forge's wall, tilting his head at the scratches all over the stones. "What happened to your back wall?" Dammon flushes, stammering before you come and place a hand on the small at his back, calming him. "Just your typical late night at the forge. Nothing to worry about."

Kieran

He smiles down at your blissed-out face, "Feels good, doesn't it, bunny?" All you can manage to do is to open your mouth and whine as his cock keeps punching against your cervix, brushing your smooth, slick walls with the hard ridges of his cock. Kieran smirks down at you, so malleable for him; he hicks your legs up further, forcing your knees up to your face, successfully folding you in half. "You're so full you can't even think right now, huh?" You urge yourself to answer, but with the added heat of his body slamming onto you is leaving you in a lustful daze. You end up just grabbing his shoulders, digging your nails further into his flesh, practically threatening to make him bleed, "Please…" Your pleading is music to his ears as he pounds you harder, his nails not only ripping through the wooden headboard but ripping your skin in the process. The sharp feeling is quickly dulling into toe-curling pleasure as Kieran continues to fuck you at a rough pace. "Please… Please!" you continue to breathe as you quench down on his cock, causing him to groan in your ear, "Oh bunny, you don't even know what you're begging for, do you?" Kieran rolls his hips at an agonizingly slow pace making your eyes cross as his tail finds your clit. "What would your boyfriend think of you now? Begging like a whore for another man's cock in his bed nonetheless…" you hardly hear his taunting words as you cling to him, babbling as his nails continue to carve into you; if you didn't know any better, you would think he's carving his initials… "poor bastard just didn't know how to treat you…" Kieran grabs your hips and starts to bounce you in his cock, smiling at how you come undone for him so easily. Honestly, Kieran is not remorseful in the least for scratching everything up. 

Your boyfriend stumbles into your shared bedroom and pauses when he sees the bed broken and everything else he owns ripped to shreds. He looks around, perplexed until he sees a letter waiting on the broken nightstand. "Sorry about the bed. Try finding something more durable. Also, I took the girl." - K.E. 

Syvaris

Syvaris was just expecting to take a nice refreshing dip… but he hadn't expected to be interrupted during his wash in the river. Syvaris had a feeling he was being watched, it was only confirmed when he stopped his meditation to see you peeking at him from behind a tree. You, the same sweet little thing he had helped save earlier that day spying on him…, and he couldn't find it in himself to mind, especially when it's someone so pretty like you acting so naughty. All Syvaris had to do was wave his hand to beckon you closer, "care to join me?" was all he said to get you to strip bare for him and join him in the crisp waters. It was clear you were wanting this just like he was. The coolness of the water made you feel a shiver throughout your body; it was short-lived. However, as you swam closer, he wrapped his warm arms around you, bringing you to his lap. Syvaris chuckled as he let you roam your hands over his wide chest. A passionate make-out followed where he prepped you with his long fingers in your wet cunt. The next thing you knew in the lust-filled blur was him having switched your positions to have your back pushed against a rock as he stretched your cunt taut, and he sunk into your warmth. Syvaris seemed determined to ruin you for any man after him with the way he rammed into you. Syvaris continued to shower you in praise as his lips caressed your sweat-laced skin, and with every kiss, every whisper, every thrust that threatened to go straight to your womb, your pussy fluttered and gripped him like a vise. Such a sweet little thing… he promises to come back for you when his journey is over, but for now he wants to stay in this moment for as long as he can, holding tight to you as he digs his claws into the rock holding you as he fills you with his cum. You won't be able to forget him… especially not when you're going to be leaking him for days…

You are stuck in your reverie as you look out into the cool waters. You were meant to be down here to wash laundry in the stream, but when you look in the distance, you see that same place where you shared your night with your hero. Syvaris had left with a promise to return, and you knew deep down it was true… but you still worried…. "Are those bear scratches?" one of the girls with her own basket says in shock, part of you has half a mind to confess… but you keep Syvaris and your secret tight to your chest. 

[unluckywisher]

I read your crack fic of playing with Mephisto and omg loved it i was wondering if you may do like a part two where sylus is starring at his messed up house and in order for them not to get scolded they try to make sylus join them in playing tag

I'm actually so happy to write this!! Eeeeeee <3 Mephi shenanigans always good shenanigans.

< Part 1

Sylus walked in to the house being a mess. His eyes, after scanning the room, landed on you and Mephisto on the floor.

You both froze. And then- "It was him!" You pointed at the bird, just as it cawed and pointed at you with its wing. "No! Don't try to pin this on me! I just ran around, you were the one who made the mess-" You started arguing, Mephi making noises of annoyance.

"Stop." Sylus' voice made you both look up again. He sighed and put his hand over his eyes, squeezing his temples.

You both knew what was about to happen. Sylus would scold you and you'd have to clean the mess, and Mephisto would be thrown out to sleep on the living room instead of his usual perch in Sylus' room.

A quick glance between you two. That was all you needed to formulate the plan, no words. You nodded.

Just as Sylus opened his mouth to start his rant, Mephi flew right to his face, covering his eyes with his wings to distract him, while you crawled and tackled his legs, making him fall to the ground.

Before he could react or use his Evol, you stood up, grabbing your feathery accomplice, and ran. "You're it!" You chanted.

With nervous laughter, you dashed across the base, not sure where to hide. Mephisto, who was cradled in your arms but peeking over your shoulder to warn you if he was close, started cawing and wiggling around.

"Is this the game we're playing, sweetie?" You didn't dare turn around, your feet carrying you to-

The gym room. Not many places to hide, unless you could turn into a punching bag.

The door swung open, and you dove under one of the machines. Perhaps it wasn't the best cover, but it was all you had. At least you'd be able to make a run for it if he got closer and you had a clear shot towards the door.

"I can see you, you know." The machine got lifted in the air by black tendrils. "Using your Evol is cheating!" You yelled, accompanied by Mephi's squawking. He chuckled and the machine descended, away from you.

You tried to run around the boxing ring but his legs were longer, and he could catch up to you with ease.

In a desperate attempt to help you, Mephi shot into the air and dove once again to Sylus' face. He even gave you a final look as if saying 'save yourself, i'll hold him back'.

You nodded with respect and ran out of the gym, an annoyed sigh reaching your ears as Sylus grabbed Mephisto and made him disappear with a snap of his fingers.

"I just said using your Evol was cheating!" You repeated without stopping. "Since when have I played by the rules?" He laughed, getting closer.

You had to do something. But you didn't have your little friend anymore, so what were your options?

"Kraa!" A familiar sound echoed along the halls. It seemed like Mephisto had been simply sent back to its perch, but the door now closed, he couldn't get out.

You turned the corner, intending to run straight to the bedroom door. The next step of the plan could wait. Not that there was a plan in the first place. The sounds of running behind you got closer.

Your hands wrapped around the knob and turned. Just as Sylus attempted to catch you-

You both fell forward, though he used his Evol to stop you from hurting yourself. Still, you were now on the floor.

Mephisto flew to Sylus' shoulder, who had quickly stood up and taken a step back with a chuckle, looking down at you. You glared at him.

He leaned down and booped your nose. "You're it." And vanished, along with Mephisto.

"YOU CHEATER! AND MEPHISTO, YOU TRAITOR! COME BACK HERE BOTH OF YOU!!!!"

[charles-smith-pillow-princess]

charthur proposal and/or arthur driving charles crazy during recovery bc he's bored and wants to work

Charles raised a brow. “Arthur,” he asked, bemused. “What are you doing?” 

Arthur blinked rapidly, his ears burning. “What do you—What do you think? I’m proposin’ to ya!” Arthur gestured to his very clearly bent knee, brandishing the ring pinched between his fingers. “The hell does it look like?” 

Charles’ brow furrowed. Arthur’s heart dropped to his guts, burning up in the acid he could taste in the back of his throat. It’d taken everything in him to get the gumption up to do this again, after Mary. 

Charles had stayed with him through hell, nursing Arthur through an illness neither of them were sure he’d survive. Two years of hard, uncertain living, constant fighting from Arthur being bored and ornery and depressed by turns, not even able to smooth things over with so much as a kiss—

The idea that Charles would reject him now, when he finally had something of a life to offer back to the man who’d given so much for him? 

It washed the last years in a heavy tint. The dark, snarling thing with sharp teeth that lived in Arthur's head whispered that this was it. Charles was gonna leave, because he finally wouldn’t feel bad for abandoning Arthur on his own. That he’d stuck around not for love, but for pity. 

Charles shook his head, his confused frown replaced by an exasperated smile. “Arthur,” he said, as if to a particularly slow child (or Bill Williamson). “We’ve been married for two years.”

Arthur blinked. The slinking, long-toothed animal chewing up his heart paused, cocking its head.

“We have?” Arthur asked, utterly bewildered. “When?”

Charles’ brows shot up to his hairline. He covered his mouth with his hand, snickering. It took a lot to get a laugh out of Charles, and apparently Arthur’s confusion was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. “What do you—,” Charles cut off with a deep belly laugh. “When we moved into the same home!”

Arthur’s knee ached. He ignored it. “That ain’t the same as marriage!”

Charles laughed, ducking his head into his hands. “Wait—Arthur,” he gasped between guffaws. “What the hell do you think I’ve been doing for two years?” 

Arthur gestured wildly, ring still pinched in his fingers. “Besides taking care of my mangy ass?” 

Charles shook his head. His shoulders were shaking, one arm clenching his side. “Yes, you fool,” he laughed, reaching for Arthur’s hand. He tugged his irate cowboy forward until he was kneeling between Charles’ spread thighs, his elbows balanced on Charles’ knees. 

Charles cradled Arthur’s jaw in one hand, eyes shining with tears of laughter. “Caring for you, because you’re my husband,” he breathed, grinning wide. The firelight flickered in the shadows of his dimples. “Arthur—we were married the day you said yes to coming with me.”

“Well thanks for tellin’ me!” Arthur exclaimed, fisting his free hand in Charles’ collar. His cheeks ached with an answering grin—he couldn’t hold onto his confused anger, not with the joy ballooning inside of him, pressing against his ribs. He felt half like he’d float off, if not for the warm grasp of Charles’ hand in his own. “Where I come from we do a ceremony! Rings, at least!” 

 “I’m sorry,” Charles chuckled. His smile was pretty and wide in the firelight, dimples framed by the loose curl of his hair about his shoulders. “My people—we don’t do anything like that. You just live together,” Charles shrugged. “And then you’re married.” 

Arthur huffed. “Sounds nice,” he griped. “You tellin’ me I went out and got ya this ring for nothin’?” 

Charles’ grin gentled into something softer, more contemplative. He tugged the ring from Arthur’s hand, considering it. 

Arthur’s heart crawled into his throat when Charles placed it back in his palm, then soared like an eagle when Charles held his own left hand out between them, ring finger extended.  

“I’m good with mixing traditions if you are,” Charles said, gazing at Arthur with a look that warmed Arthur down to his toes. “You’re supposed to put it on me. Right, cowboy?” 

Arthur grinned, sliding the ring over Charles’ finger to the third knuckle.

“This is the part where you say ‘yes’, traditionally,” Arthur said, voice rough. 

“Wouldn’t wanna break tradition,” Charles mused, and pulled Arthur up into his lap for a deep kiss. 

They parted minutely for breath after a few long moments, neither willing to go far. 

“Yes,” Charles said, lips brushing against Arthur’s own. It was the sweetest single syllable Arthur had ever heard. “I’ll marry you, Arthur Morgan. Twice over, yes.” 

[bwat5-blog]

Spoilers For All of Arcane

Pivotal Moments For Vi

I am continuing to cope with the end of the show by doing some lists of what I feel are the most pivotal moments for some of the main characters, in terms of showing us who they are/just leaving a huge impression. Starting off with out favorite pink haired bad-ass.

Vi-

The Bridge of Progress:

This one is fairly self-explanatory, but the haunted look on Vi's face seeing her dead mother in the middle of this fiery hellscape, tells us what we need to know. The writers tell us Vi is 14-16 years old from beginning to end of season 1, act 1. So at 14 years old she is here, holding her little sisters hand seeing their entire world come undone surrounded by violence.. and still holding on to her sister.

2. Vander's lessons:

"When people look up to you, you don't get to be selfish". I know that's not the exact conversation at this moment but its essentially what Vander's lessons boil down to, and they become such a fundamental part of Vi's personality it is bordering on a character flaw. All that matters is doing right by those she feels responsible for. Damn the consequences to her body/mind/soul.

3. Trying to turn herself in:

*disclaimer I know this gif isn't that moment, couldn't find it*

As I said above. Vi is at most 16 years old here and that is per the writers. I have EXPOUNDED AT LENGTH on how the events of this story, especially in these early days are not Vi's fault. But at only sixteen, after speaking with Vander about responsibility Vi tries to turn herself in to the enforcers for the sake of her friends, her family, and her fellow Zaunites. Brave and selfless even then.

4. Loss of Family:

After already losing her birth parents when she was even younger, Vi and Powder are given a second chance in Vander, Milo and Clagger. That is until Vi is forced to watch her brothers die violently, and kneel in the street over her fathers body, all seemingly seconds from them succeeding in Vander's rescue. This coupled with the effect of her separation from Powder has such a powerful effect on Vi's life the effects cannot be overstated. That guilt and loss forming the guarded and guilt stricken young woman we meet in Act 2.

5. Meeting Caitlyn:

Vi meeting Caitlyn is the catalyst for Vi moving forward in her life. Obviously her story is much more involved than that. But when they meet, Vi has been in prison for years. Her whole life stolen from her and stalled by Marcus. Her sister is a different person, her family is gone, and she has had to survive seven years on her own without love, or kindness, or joy. Now along comes this nervous, kind of dorky naïve woman in the uniform embodying the oppression of Vi's childhood, and she breaks her out and shows her a way to live again.

Reuniting with Powder/Jinx:

By the time Vi finally achieves her dream and finds Powder, she is plenty aware her home has changed. But the entire time, she has held on to the hope and dream that her sister is still there. That they can go back to a semblance of who they were.. and In true-to-form heartbreaking fashion, we see Vi forced to confront the reality that while life has beaten her down and changed her, it did not spare her sister either. The thing of note for who Vi is though, is that even as Jinx is lamenting how she has changed, and the things she has done, Vi supports and loves her. She does not turn away from her at this point. She is taken from her.

Saving Caitlyn:

The time comes that Caitlyn and Echo are going into Piltover, in the hope of proving to the council that Silco and Jinx are responsible for what has occurred. It is quite clear by now Vi and Caitlyn have feelings for each other, but even still Vi is going to stay behind and keep looking for her sister. It is only when Caitlyn and Echo's lives are threatened that Vi runs back into the fray, even risking her life for Caitlyn when its clear that Jinx is the threat. This is one small step of Vi's evolution but an important one.

The Dinner Party:

This event is the breaking point of Vi's belief that she can save "Powder". Now we as the audience know that the sisters find peace with each-other by the end, with Vi seemingly accepting Jinx for who she has become, and Jinx finding her way out of her inner darkness. But this incident forces Vi to come face-to-face with the darkness that has consumed Powder, marking a notable shift in the sisters relationship and tearing away more of Vi's hope to restore her family. This whole incident is heartbreaking for many reasons but in terms of Vi, its like we are watching her hang from a cliffside and someone is slowly prying her fingers away from the ledge

Putting On The Uniform:

I and many others have discussed Vi putting on the uniform in great detail across various sources. I have seen many accuse Vi of betraying her people, betraying her parents. I believe that is far too simplistic. This is an act of desperation. Its important to remember the following:

At this point Vi is afraid her sister is too far gone

Caitlyn (the woman Vi loves) has confided in Vi that she is afraid if she hunts Jinx without Vi, that Cait or Jinx will kill the other.

Piltover retaliation against the undercity is happening with or without Vi's help.

By going, she has a chance to keep Caitlyn safe, and even though she is conflicted about how to handle her sister, she will at least be there for whatever happens.

Ultimately what does this all boil down to? "When people look up to you, you don't get to be selfish". Vi is literally putting on the symbol of her parents murder to be there for the people that count on her

The Doomed Promise:

Here we get one of the rare but much appreciated glimpses behind the curtain of Stoicism and determination Vi always keeps up. She tearfully admits to Caitlyn she thinks her sister is beyond help, and begs the woman she loves not to be lost to the darkness in her because Vi has literally lost everyone else. We all cheered when they kissed for the first time. But I think we all knew what was coming as well.

The Breakup (AKA THE GIANT MIDDLE FINGER TO OUR SOULS):

Just following this post alone I have detailed how Vi has every ounce of happiness taken from her a piece at a time, until Caitlyn. Caitlyn even as an enforcer is the bright spot in Vi's life. She brings love, and hope, and a tenderness Vi has never known. She is certainly the only enforcer to ever treat her with kindness. But this is a harsh and complicated world. Vi has fought and bled trying to save her sister and at this point, has failed. Her birth parents, her adoptive father and brothers are all dead and gone. So when Caitlyn, who only earlier the same day had kissed her for the first time, and promised her she wouldn't lose herself to her grief risks the life of a child, tells Vi she is no different than the woman WHO KILLED CAITLYN"S MOTHER, and hits Vi, its the straw that breaks the camel's back

Pitfighter:

Okay, putting aside how insanely attractive she is, this is actually HEARTBREAKING. Vi has lost everything, and everyone. We are seeing her leached of color and life. I re-blogged a post explaining in-depth how this is far more than "because of a woman" that i recommend reading as they did a great job covering it. So what I'll say here is that Caitlyn betraying Vi in that way broke her to such a degree that she has finally stopped fighting to live.. She is clearly on the path to self-destruct, and does not care anymore

Trusting Jinx/Finding Vander:

Needless to say Vi is not in a good place when Jinx comes knocking, asking her to believe that their long dead father has actually returned in the form of a wolf like monstrosity. Vi is aggressive, drinking heavily, fighting to the point she is losing (risking her own safety), and self-destructing. So it is not a shock that she responds badly when Jinx comes. But this whole episode (although like everything else this season it was rushed) shows us the Vi we know and love is still in there. She doesn't hesitate to throw herself in between Vander and Isha. and even though it would mean her certain death if Jinx is wrong, when Jinx begs her sister to believe her Vi lowers her gauntlets and the image you see above is the result. Even with all the anger, and guilt, and blame between them Vi immediately calls her sister into the hug. Even at her lowest point, Vi still believes in their family.

Reunited with Caitlyn:

First of all, #JusticeforVi! No way Cait takes her down when Vi is at her best haha. But this matters for obvious reasons. Vi is not who she was when Caitlyn broke her heart, neither is Caitlyn. But as I said previously, the Vi we know is still in there. That hope, that love, that unquenchable flame. There are OBVIOUSLY still issues to work out between them. But Vi trust Caitlyn with the truth.. and calls her cupcake.

Loss of Vander/Protecting Jinx:

My god this episode.. Only a short time after getting him back, Vi has to watch Vander lose himself to the beast inside. And in spectacularly horrifying fashion, watching him erupt in lava?blood? while being speared and attacked by Noxian soldiers. The look of horror on Vi's face is heartbreaking when we were treated to one of her rare smiles only seconds before. This just adds to the long list of trauma/pain she has gone through and is important to remember for the conclusion of the story. But the other part of this, is that even in the midst of that crushing pain. Vi still sacrifices herself to protect her little sister. Thankfully, she lives. But she had no way to know she would when she throws herself over Jinx on the ground.

Never Give up:

Vi wakes up. She has barely recovered from a bad injury saving her sister and finds out Jinx has been imprisoned. Recognizing all the changes Jinx has been through, Vi defends her. Insisting she has changed. And even says "Who decides who gets a second chance" to Caitlyn in defense of her sister. Vi then goes and tries to break jinx out. She still believes in her. Still fights for her. Still loves her. Now there are a few more nuanced important things to keep in mind here-

Jinx says "your really never gonna give up on me". I mentioned earlier Vi's willingness to sacrifice herself for her loved ones, to put herself in bad situations and disregard her own happiness can go beyond selfless and into a disregard for herself completely. Jinx leaving Vi in the cell is a huge moment. its the moment Vi realizes that no matter how badly she wants to help her sister, YOU CANT SAVE EVERYONE. I had a lovely discussion with another user recently about this. For anyone who has ever had an addict in your life. You can't force them to get better. No matter how much you love them, how much you beg and plead and fight and scream, sometimes you just aren't the one to get it done. And that's a really hard thing to accept.

Accepting Love:

So obviously this was a HUGE moment for all kinds of reasons but sticking with Vi's character, I'm focusing on two specific ones:

"I choose wrong every time and because of it, I have lost everyone"- First of all, Caitlyn's want of Vi and love and and affection is on a very basic level proof she hasn't lost everyone. But it's more than that. Caitlyn is validating V,i and Vi's choices. She knew Vi was going to come for Jinx and is not only okay with it, she cleared the way. Vi feels seen, and loved, and accepted by the woman she loves. The importance of that cannot be overstated for a character who feels like she has no one left in her corner

2. Vi chooses happiness: I have seen commentary to the tune of "Jinx was clearly in crisis Vi should have gone after her" or "Really in the cell her sister was rotting in?!" To that, I would say this. Say Vi chased after her, why? To what purpose? As i said earlier, one of the hardest things to learn is that you can't save everyone no matter how much you love them. There is every likelihood Vi and Caitlyn will die tomorrow. So she could spend what could be her last night alive hunting Jinx in the undercity ,and if she finds her trying to coax her back. But we are shown clearly that that is not what Jinx or Vi need. Jinx tells Vi to be happy, to be with Caitlyn and stop feeling guilty.

This show maintains strong thematic continuity through parallels, with Its closest characters often learning similar lessons. Both Vi and Jinx have to learn to stop "Running in Circles". So that being said, what are we left with when Jinx is gone?:

Vi is face to face with the woman she loves. The woman who despite hurting her, immediately signed on to save Vander even knowing what betraying Ambessa would mean. Who was angry but didn't move to hurt Jinx at the commune, who saved Vi when she was hurt, who didn't arrest Jinx, and who cleared the way for jinx to go free since that's what Vi really wanted. So Vi lets herself have this. She lets herself be happy with the woman she loves. its beautiful and intimate and a culmination of these two characters relationship long in the making, no matter where they are

Loss of Vander/Jinx:

To those who continue to suggest Vi is guilty for Jinx's death (not dead), I encourage you to search your humanity. I have discussed it in this post as well as several others now, but lets run down the barebones trauma checklist one more time:

Vi is in her early twenties

Watches her birth parents die

Watches her brothers die

Watches Vander die the first time, during an incident Vi barely survived herself

Thrown in a cold and dark prison for seven years to be abused and terrorized and assaulted

Stabbed, beaten and hunted in the mission to save her little sister who has become dangerous and unstable

Little sister almost kills her

Little sisters kills her girlfriend's (i know they weren't really dating yet just keeps things simpler) mother

Willingly dons enforcer uniform to protect Caitlyn only to be assaulted and abandoned

Lives at least a few months in a self-destructive spiral being beaten and drinking heavily

Gets her dad and sister back even if dad is in a monstrous wolf body

Has to say goodbye to Dad as he seemingly dies in a horrifying manner

Survives the horror of that last battle

Watches Dad die again

Simply put. She had enough. The best I ever heard trauma described was that your mind is a cup, and eventually your cup runs over. Its cliché and used in movies and tv shows all the time but that's because its simple and its clear. Vi just cannot take any more.. and we see it.. she is seeing vander die all over again that very first time, crying and cradling his head. And when he attacks her Vi, who hasn't backed down from a fight since the first time we see her is left crawling back pleading with him to stop. She just shuts down. So yes, if you go out of your way to aggressively ignore nuance/context/story telling you can simply say its Vi's fault.. I hope you do not. You are cheating yourself out of the full weight of this heartbreaking and inspiring story.

The Dirt Under Your Nails:

This is quite possibly the last time we will see Vi outside of the game if Riot is to be believed. I hope not, but I would understand it. Vi is the warrior who has found peace. She is not untouched. She has lost so much, been wounded many times over in ways that will likely never fully heal. She has the love of her life but even she is permanently altered from all they have been through. And at the end of it all, even though Jinx's sacrifice for Vi was beautiful, and heroic, and a stunning moment for Jinx's character, it hurts to know that is more guilt Vi doesn't deserve but will likely carry forever, if she never learns Jinx is alive. For the people saying Vi seems too happy or she doesn't care, she is sitting alone drinking when we find her singing Powder's song. I have said it in several posts and stand by it. This is not happily ever after for Vi, not quite yet. But because of her unending strength, loyalty and love. And because of the people who have loved and respected her and helped her become the woman she is today, I think Vi has found the path to Happily ever after.

To those who read this I appreciate you. I know I have gone on-and-on about Vi. I want to do this with Jinx and Caitlyn as well. As i have said, interacting with this fan-base and sharing our love for this incredible work has been a real positive force for me as a person and I appreciate each of you.

[marlynnofmany]

A Feat of Minor Daring

(Related side project: Prank War!)

~~~

If you have to wait around for a client to bring you something to deliver, waiting on a landing pad with spectacular scenery is not a bad way to do it. Most of the rest of the crew was inside the ship — shuffling the boxes from our other client of the day, and doing any number of other mundane things — so it was just Paint and me enjoying the alien landscape. Their loss. 

I was appreciating the views, while Paint was really there for the smells. I kept pointing out particularly vivid splashes of color among the sea-anemone-shaped trees, while Paint caught whiffs of enticing things. 

“Ooh, what do you think that sharp scent is?” Paint asked when a cool breeze gusted past. She pulled her heat scarf closer. She was also wearing a heat sticker plastered to her scaly chest, which seemed like overkill to me, but I wasn’t a coldblooded lizard alien. I just had a sweater for the chill. 

“Your guess is better than mine,” I said, sniffing the air. “I’m going to go with ‘some sort of plant.’”

A cheerful jumble of musical notes chimed from the treeline where winged fauna hid among tentacle-branches. It sounded remarkably like several ringtones going off at the same time. I was about to ask Paint if she thought it was animals imitating tech, or maybe just a coincidence of evolution, when wild flapping heralded an explosion of feathers across the clearing. 

Colorful bird-things soared over us, their wings a riot of fiery shades and their bodies lined in speckled back feathers over bright blue scales. It was a glorious streak of color, and they sounded like a pile of phones all ringing at once. I had to grin at the sight. 

Paint just said, “I think they’re the source of the smell. How lovely.”

Then a straggler flapped out after the others, and I stopped grinning. 

It was trailing a plastic bag caught around its foot, just like the ones still causing trouble for animals on Earth. The poor thing must have been scavenging in town. By the time it collapsed halfway across the clearing, I was already moving, tugging my sweater off and sneaking up on the bird.

Paint squeaked, “What are you doing?”

“It needs help,” I said, keeping my voice low. The alien bird was breathing hard from the effort of fighting that much extra drag, and hopefully no additional problems. It hadn’t noticed me yet.

“Why is that your responsibility?” Paint hissed in concern. “It could bite you! You don’t even have scales, and you’re not wearing an exo suit! Why did you just take off your soft armor?”

“It’s not my responsibility,” I murmured. “But somebody’s got to.” I eased forward and took a long-legged jump to land with one foot squarely on the bag, then tackled the bird to wrap it in my sweater.

It, unsurprisingly, objected. And it was stronger than it looked.

“What are you doing??” Paint repeated. “You’ll get hurt!”

I fought to get a hand around the bird’s head and keep it from pecking me anywhere important while also holding its wings in. It did its level best to accomplish fight and flight at the same time. It even regurgitated a splash of food, which I managed to barely dodge. It smelled unpleasantly fishy.

But I got the bird’s head pinned down in a way that hopefully didn’t restrict its breathing, and I ended up crouched over the thing using my legs to keep its wings folded. My other hand was doing the important job of preventing it from wriggling free. That didn’t leave any hands for removing the bag.

“Paint! I need your claws!”

“What? No!” She sounded more than a little panicked.

“Just get the bag off its foot!” I said, jerking my head back to where the bag rustled behind me. “Then I’ll let it go!”

“That doesn’t look safe!” Paint insisted.

The bird bucked and thrashed. “It’s not going to get any safer! Come on, it needs help!”

Paint hissed a string of what were probably swear words as she darted forward and approached the talons. I couldn’t see what she was doing from my angle, but I heard the rustle of plastic. I wanted to ask how it was going and give pointers, maybe suggest stepping on the bag to hold it tight, though I didn’t know if that would help or not. I kept quiet.

“Got it!” Paint leapt back, holding up the torn bag in triumph.

“Great!” I said. “Does its leg look injured? Did the bag dig into it or cut off circulation as far as you can tell?”

Paint stepped forward gingerly, then shook her head. “No, the scales look fine.”

I let out a breath. “Extra great. Okay, stand back.”

Paint scampered over to stand by the ship, taking the bag with her, while I got my feet under me. In as smooth a motion as I could, I jumped sideways and rolled away, trailing my sweater. I would have preferred to stand and exit with dignity, but this was faster. Dignity wasn’t worth getting pecked in the knee.

In a whirlwind of feathers, the scaly bird scrambled into the sky. I sat up to watch it go. While I expected a dramatic arc into the distance, it only got as far as the biggest amoeba-tree. I worried that it was injured after all. Then I saw the cluster of tiny beaks that reached up as it landed.

I grinned all over again, watching the reunited family greet each other. A rustle of plastic told me Paint stood beside me. I looked up at her. “We did it.”

She watched the nest with wide eyes, clutching the bag. “We did. And it mattered.”

“It always matters.” I got to my feet with a wince, hoping that wasn’t going to be a bruise on my hip. “Thanks for helping. That was a deed well done.”

Paint was still staring. “Do you think it will have enough food for all the hatchlings? After spitting some at you?”

A glance told me the bird was feeding its young in the time-honored vomity fashion. “I hope so,” I said. “Scavenging for more might lead to another trash adventure, though maybe this was a learning experience.”

Paint stood up straighter. “Let’s check the species database and see what it eats,” she said. “That smells a lot like the canned fish I’ve been saving. We can put it out where they’ll find it.”

“A fine plan,” I told her. “Let’s get cleaned up first so we don’t leave bird germs in the kitchen.”

We’d only taken a couple steps toward the ship before Eggskin met us at the door with concern on their scaly face. “Kavlae said there was some sort of commotion outside, and someone might be hurt?” They brandished the medscanner.

Before I could answer, Paint held up the crumpled plastic bag. “We saved a creature that was trapped in this!”

Eggskin cocked their head, clearly about to ask why, but Paint was still talking. She gave a dramatic recounting of the whole affair. Eggskin turned on the scanner and checked us both for contamination while she talked. Clear. (Whew.)

“…And now it’s safely up in the nest with its hatchlings, and it wouldn’t have made it up there if not for us, and they would have starved and died, and we saved all of them!” Paint said, waving the bag. “It always matters! Now where’s the can opener? I want to leave them some of my fish.”

Eggskin blinked. “Third drawer on the right, where it should be. Unless someone’s misplaced it again. Put that in the biohazard bin and wash your hands.”

“Got it, thanks!” Paint was gone in a rustle of plastic.

Eggskin looked up at me. “Is ‘pack bonding’ contagious?”

I laughed. “I couldn’t tell you. But it always matters. Would you mind keeping an eye on that nest over there while I go change clothes? I’ll wash my hands too.”

Eggskin sighed. “Please do.”

They stood outside the ship watching the distant family of scaly birds, wearing an expression like they were trying to figure something out. I smiled and left to get cleaned up. I’d check the species database afterward. Maybe I had some food they’d like too.

~~~

Did I mention the Prank War?

~~~

These are the ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book.

Shared early on Patreon! There’s even a free tier to get them on the same day as the rest of the world.

The sequel novel is in progress (and will include characters from these stories. I hadn’t thought all of them up when I wrote the first book, but they’re too much fun to leave out of the second).

[sheerfreesia007]

Do You Want To Build A Snowman?

Pairing: Changbin x Reader

Word count: 1,239

Content warnings: Fluff

Summary: With the first snow Changbin wants to build a snowman like he used you when he was a kid, but what happens when none of the other boys want to? Will you step up and help him with his snowman?

The air is cold as you watch the boys all run around the large field playing a game of tackle tag? You weren’t really sure what game they were playing but it involved a lot of tackling each other into the freshly fallen snow from last night. You felt a presence come up to your side and you turned your head to see Changbin pouting slightly as he came to stand next to you. You tilted your head at him quietly and he pouted more dramatically as he noticed your attention.

“What’s the matter, Binnie?” you ask him sweetly and he huffs softly as he watches the boys and then turns to you.

“No one wants to build a snowman with me.” he whines softly to you and you gasp loudly at him while widening your eyes. Changbin flinches at your reaction as he watches you with worried eyes.

“I’ll build a snowman with you! I love building snowmen!” you say excitedly as you grab his arm and Changbin grins widely at you letting you lead him away from the boys. “Where should we build him?” you ask as you look around the field for the perfect spot.

“What about over by the tree over there?” he asks, pointing his finger across the field and you turn and squint your eyes at the spot he’s picked and then start rushing over to the spot. You stomp your feet in a large circle tamping down the snow before grinning happily up at him as he watches you with a raised eyebrow.

“We need a good solid surface for him if we’re going to do this right.” you tell him seriously and he bursts out in happy delighted laughter at how serious you are about this. “Okay, let’s start getting the base together.” you direct him and he nods his head easily as a look of determination comes over his face. 

You help him start packing a tight snowball together before you begin to add more and more snow to it letting it grow and grow. The two of you continue working on the base until finally it’s a decent size and it’s gotten too heavy for you to comfortably hold it or pick it up. Changbin starts to roll the large base back towards the area that he had picked for the snowman and you smile at his back as you begin starting on the middle of the snowman. 

When he jogs back over to you you’ve already got a pretty medium sized snowball going for the middle and you easily hand it over to him to finish up before you turn and start working on the head of the snowman. The two of you continue working and soon you’re rolling the head back over to Changbin who’s adjusting the middle section on the base of the snowman before he turns to you with a grin on his face. 

You can’t help admiring him as his cheeks have turned rosy with the cold air and his efforts of making the snowman. His eyes are wide and sparkling with excitement as he builds the snowman and eyes it critically as if it would be critiqued and graded on its craftsmanship. You laugh softly at him and he tilts his head to the side in confusion causing you to shake your head at him while smiling softly at him. 

He bends down and easily picks up the head of the snowman and sets it sturdily on the middle section and slowly slides it around until it sits perfectly on the snowman. He takes a step back to stand beside you and you both take a moment to eye it critically before nodding satisfied with your work.

“I think he looks great.” you tell him and he grins widely at you before nodding his head. You step forward and unravel your scarf from around your neck and gently tie it around the snowman’s neck.

“Yah! You’ll get cold.” Changbin protests to you and you shake your head at him.

“I’m going to head inside once we’re done here.” you tell him to ease his worry. “I’ll make hot chocolate for everyone so that we’ll all have something to warm us up after being out here.” you tell him with a grin and he smiles at you before nodding his head. “Why don’t you find some rocks and sticks for his face and arms?” you suggest to him and he eagerly nods his head before he rushes off to find everything.

You then turn and begin to make a bunch of smaller snowballs and start to stack them together in a semi circle around the larger snowman. When Changbin comes back with an armful of sticks and rocks you’re just finishing up the last mini snowman. He comes to a stop beside you as you stand up from your crouched position and he looks around at the seven mini snowmen and bursts out into laughter as he realizes what you’ve done.

“You made Channie Snowman and his seven snowmen children.” he says delightedly as he turns to you spotting your answering grin as he laughs loudly at them all. You take the rocks from his arms and begin to place them in Channie snowman’s face, making a wide smile for the snowman leader while Changbin moves to choose the best arms for the snowman, a wide grin still on his face as he works.

With the snowman finally completed the two of you grin as Changbin snaps a few selfies of the two of you with the snowman before he snaps a few pictures of all the smaller snowmen as well. His absolute delight is infectious and you can’t help but laugh and grin at him as he excitedly takes his pictures. When he’s finally done with his pictures he comes back to your side and wraps you in a tight hug that you easily reciprocate.

“Thank you for building a snowman with me.” he says fondly into your ear and you chuckle softly at him before ducking your head into his neck squeezing him a little tighter in your arms.

“I’ll always make a snowman with you, Binnie. You just gotta ask.” you tell him happily as you lean back to look at his face your grin turns mischievously and he tilts his head at you for a second before you start to belt out. “Do you want to build a snowman!?” 

Changbin suddenly lets you go to raise his hands to his ears at how loud you were singing and you instantly start running back towards the apartments while still belting out the song. “Come on, let's go and play! I never see you any more, come out the door. It’s like you’ve gone away!”

“Yah! Get back here!” Changbin shouts from behind you and you look over your shoulder as you continue running away from him with a bright happy smile on your face.

“Never!” you shout and when you see him start running after you your eyes widen as you pick up your pace trying to evade him. But as you reach the fence of the park Changbin sweeps you up into his arms as the boys all cheer behind the two of you. Your shrieks of laughter are only silenced when Changbin carries you into the apartment to start making that hot chocolate you had mentioned earlier for everyone.

SKZ Taglist: @intartaruginha, @kayleefriedchicken, @babigriin, @simpforleeknaur, @inlovewithstraykids,

@hityoulikebahng

[phyx-m]

Beneath The Silk | True form Sukuna x Reader

🔗 Masterlist

Chapter 27: The Great Collapse

Content warning: Light cannibalism (Sukuna has a quick lil snack), violence, murder, blood, gore, dismemberment, angst.

🔗 Songs for this chapter:

Brother’s In Arms - Junkie XL (honestly, anything that gets your blood going)

* * * * *

Chapter 26

* * * * *

Weeks before the union... “You will wed Sukuna Ryomen.”

Your father’s words ring in your ears. You hear them and understand them, but still, they don’t seem to make sense.

Wed the King of Curses?

Why?

It’s clear the head of the Kasai clan holds a particular animosity toward you. The signs are all there. In the way he treats you. In the way, he looks at you. In the way, he leaves his abuse across your body.

But this?

No.

Fuck no.

You’ve heard the rumours, the tales, the whispers. The physical abnormalities, the bloodlust, the piling of eaten bodies. The way the monster has been ravaging the northern lands and its people for years. And now your father wants to tie you to the devil himself?

Why? Is this punishment for what you did?

Eyes pulling away from your lap, they latch onto the figure before you. Your father—if that title even fits a man like him, kneels pridefully across from you in his private chambers at the back of the Kasai compound. This particular summer day is warm, and the door to the garden stands open, but it offers little comfort.

“Forgive me,” you murmur, striving to be as respectful as possible while feeling anything but. “But I don’t quite understand.”

He takes a moment, scraping his eyes over the length of your body from head to toe, before sniffing dismissively.

“There’s been an agreement.”

That’s all he offers, no further elaboration.

Your eyebrows lift softly as a breeze wanders into the room.

“An agreement?” You repeat the statement, mentally tossing it around in your head while your jaw clenches and the bruise sitting there stings.

Yesterday, you’d been too slow to get away, and now it serves as a pulsing reminder—his fist driving you into the ground, your head cracking into stone. A faint trilling still throbs in your left ear from the impact, from the screaming and the yelling.

If you were to wed Sukuna, you would leave one monster here only to be delivered into the arms of a new one. A real one.

“And you think I’m best suited for becoming the King of Curses’ wife?”

Your father gives an unhelpful shrug.

You already know who would be the far better choice between you and your sister in becoming anyone’s wife. Not that you would ever want to send her into his maw. But if he’s looking to keep whatever agreement there is, she could charm him.

She did always have a way with words, after all.

You, however…

Your eyes drop to your silk gloves resting neatly on your thighs. You run your thumb over the swell of your knuckles, tracing the faint divots, the fabric straining against what they hide.

Seven years of fighting the abomination, and all it brought was death and ruin. No one has been able to get close to it. And that’s all they needed.

To get close.

But if you could…

Realization slips in—slow, cold, heavy.

You pull your gaze to your father.

“That’s not why you’re asking me… is it?”

It takes a moment, but an ugly smile crowds into his features.

Your face feels numb.

“No, daughter, it isn’t,” he says, dipping his chin toward your hands. “Seven years ago, you proved yourself useless to me. Now, you’ll prove otherwise.” His voice curdles with accusation, and you subtly roll your fingers into fists to avoid recoiling. “Your inability to control what resides inside you has denied me an heir to carry this clan’s name. Now, you will make amends.”

“And… how do you expect me to do that?”

He runs a hand across his chin while extending his neck.

“You’ll do what you must to get close to him. And when you’re close enough…” He leans forward slightly, his voice curling into something that crawls under your skin. “You’ll let him touch you. Make him trust you, make him believe he owns you. And when the moment comes, you’ll do what you did to your mother.”

What I did.

You shrink back, shame twisting and hooking in deep, deep until your stomach turns sick, sick with regret.

Yet the thought of allowing a fiend like the King of Curses—four hands and all—to touch you? He’d not be gentle. He’d probably kill you during the act itself. He’d probably enjoy it, too. Watching you bleed out before him while being impaled on his cock.

Chewing the inside of your cheek, you raise your head, eyes finding your father’s.

“What if I say I refuse?”

Because you will, he’ll have to drag you kicking and screaming for all you care.

A notch grabs his brow as if caught between confusion and delight before crow-like laughter bursts from his mouth—body hunching, the sound uncontained.

“Oh, you sweet, stupid girl.” He shakes his head while a smile honeys his voice.

His unending use of that barb makes your mouth twitch, but you remain polite.

You hate that you remain polite.

“No,” he breathes softly as he recovers, exhaling a long, guttural hum up his throat while his eyes crash into yours. His grin swells, spreading wider and wider until it looks painful, until every wrinkle and crack folds inward, until his teeth seem to consume his entire face.

“I don’t think you will.”

* * * * *

They come for you. So many of them. From everywhere. From across the room and all at once.

You can’t quite explain the way the room slows to a crawl or the horrible realization that you can’t seem to move, your body locking itself in place, paralyzed in its own fear.

You tell yourself to run, to flee, to go—but you can’t. And fuck, you need to.

You need to move now.

A Kasai breaks away from the surging group, throwing himself over tables and toward you. His stride lengthens, gait wild as he pumps his legs, sprinting like some crazed animal. His grip tightens on the hilt of a katana in one hand, the other flexing around its sheath.

For one terrible heartbeat, you think that this is it. This is how you die. Because of a screamed command. Because the one thing you were sent to kill is being used against your own clan.

Traitor.

But inside your gloves, something stirs. That familiar feeling at your fingertips—it wants out. It needs to be let out. It’s been too long.

You cling to things too tightly.

Then I won’t.

Not anymore.

Focus!

The distance between you and the man narrows. He’s only steps away when your mind reasserts itself.

Frantically, you swing up your right hand, your left gripping the leather encasing it.

The attacker arrives.

Your glove slips to your knuckles.

The katana pulls back.

You’re too slow.

The sharp end of the blade comes down, swinging for your hea—

Splurch!

A wall of flesh and muscle crashes between you and death. Four rage-soaked eyes glare down at you.

Sukuna.

He takes the full force of the weapon into his body, the blade cleaving through his upper left shoulder, splitting deep enough you see white flashes of bone. Hot blood mists across your face, metallic against your lips.

“Fool!” he snarls aggressively. “Unless you want to die, stop fucking daydreaming and MOVE!” 

The command snaps you into action.

You whirl around, tugging your glove into place as panic drives you forward. With no other thoughts, you run. It’s your only option.

Bare feet slam against the wooden floor as you sprint for the main doors, putting distance between you and the swelling melee—giving the King of Curses space to tear this place apart without killing you in the process.

A wet, gurgling scream hits your back. You glance over your shoulder, eyes widening.

The katana remains lodged in Sukuna’s shoulder as his forearm punches through the man’s throat, from knuckle to elbow. The wound pushes blood out from around the impalement, coating both in thick red globs.

You gag, your stomach fighting to expel.

Sukuna cackles, lost in his mania, before lurching his bulk forward, then back, using the momentum to slip the man’s body along his gore-slicked arm and then yanking it free.

The body crumples to the floor, lifeless, the weapon clattering aside. Sukuna steps away, rolling his four shoulders as the oozing wound on his upper body begins to blister and bubble to mend itself.

To his left, someone weaves through the chaos, hurling themselves at you while two others rush forward to divert his attention.

Sukuna’s head snaps to the movement, a wild animal catching the balm of something dying. His upper right arm swings up, his middle and index fingers casually extending like he’s playing.

Flick!

A rapid pulse of air.

The man to his left is bisected, torso splitting, organs slopping lazily from his insides. The body takes a pathetic step forward and then collapses into a formless heap of gore.

The two that rushed him meet similar fates, though they simply have their heads severed from the base of their necks.

You can’t tear your eyes away from the carnage until the sound of more rushing feet jolts you.

Move, idiot. Move, move, move!

Ripping your attention back to the door, the threshold narrows closer and closer as you dash toward it.

I’ll take the exit, then run to the stables, then—

Your right leg swings forward. You skid to a halt, feet gripping the floor.

Several figures pour into the doorway.

Three—

No, six.

More. Eight. Ten. Fifteen.

Their numbers swell, blocking the exit as they press into the main hall.

Panic snakes in, moving and falling down your throat to strangle you. You spin on your heel, veering toward the closed garden doors. 

You take a step.

Bang!

One door bursts open. The cool autumn night rushes in as the breeze extinguishes some of the lantern flames, plunging parts of the room into darkness.

You change your course, careening to your left.

But another garden door crashes open. Then another. Then another, until all of them are flung wide.

Men, perhaps the ones from the stables—armed and ready—pour inside, flanking that side of the room.

You step back and freeze.

Panic surges up each bump in your spine. Your muscles lock, your pulse quickens, breaths turning shallow.

Now your right, behind you, and your left are crawling with bodies. You and the King of Curses are trapped in the center, separated and surrounded.

This feels intentional. Something feels wrong.

Your gaze darts to the back of the room where your father stands, watching as if enjoying the view on a warm summer’s day.

You feel old at this moment.

After so many years, so many seasons of torment, his face is carved into your mind. Burned into your soul. Most memories of him you wish you could forget, and some, you wish you remembered more clearly.

But this—this one you will always remember.

That look.

That smug, bemused look etched into his hard, angular features. A look that says you’re going nowhere, you stupid girl.

It only makes you hate him more.

Your fists clench tight. Rage roils hot inside your belly. It burns until you feel sick. You’ve never wanted to take a life before, but now, the ill temptation it has on you…

You want to drown this man in all your anger and in all your hurt, in all the times he’s—

“Brat.”

Your stinging eyes flicker away as Sukuna’s deep, calm voice cuts through the spell of your darkening mind.

It barely reaches you, crushed in the buzzing of voices encircling the room, tables being shoved aside, and dishware shattering onto the floor. There are too many now. Most of them are Kasai, but another clan lingers at the edges. They prowl like bloodthirsty wolves, pacing but keeping their distance, waiting for something.

“Oy, brat!” Sukuna hisses again.

You jerk your head toward him. 

At a distance, his red eyes lock onto yours, his bottom left hand wiggling two fingers, motioning for you.

“Come here,” he coos, signalling a change in his tactic to keep you close. “Now.”

The fingers stop their taunting, and his arm stretches outward, beckoning you, inviting you to close the gap.

The room falls eerily still.

Nothing stirs.

Only the sound of panting breaths and the low murmurs of men whispering their strategies break the suspended quiet.

You stare at Sukuna. He stares back.

It’s tempting—the thought of rushing to him, surrendering into the safety of his power, and hiding from all of this. And he looks brutal, waiting there, that one arm outstretched, smeared in blood.

“Come to me,” he orders again, his voice velvet-soft before his eyes fall dark, mouth spreading into something demonic. “Don’t you trust me?”

Trust him?

Why would I ever trust you?

Old words spoken in the most intimate of moments.

Before you can make a move, someone makes it before you. A small wave breaks off.

“Wife!” 

Trust him!

You move. Fast.

Crushing your feet into the floor, you go to him. But sections are already oily with blood, making it difficult to gain traction.

You slow.

A sharp hum cuts through the air behind you, followed by the crash of something slamming into the floor.

Whatever it was, it missed its mark.

But a breeze stirs your hair. A projectile rushes past your head. 

An arrow. 

It kisses your neck, pulling apart skin, and the tip comes away coated in red before clattering to the floor.

Sweat stings into the fresh wound. You suck in a tight breath.

Too close.

Wincing, you keep going.

A growl erupts, a sound that speaks of violence, and you realize it belongs to Sukuna, who is bounding toward you.

Months ago, you would have run the other way. Months ago, you should have killed him. Months ago, you would have done things differently.

But now, legs burning, you put everything in you and go to him.

Sukuna sees you coming and closes the distance in seconds.

One gloved hand reaches out desperately, and one powerful hand hooks around your wrist, two more crowding at your waist. He yanks you to him, your bodies fusing together.

The force of his actions slams the breath from your lungs, and for three terrifying heartbeats, you’re weightless, suspended in nothing, feet hovering off the ground.

It doesn’t stop there.

You’re pulled forward—hoisted, spun.

Everything blurs.

Shapes dissolve into splotches of lights and colours. Sounds turn jarring and muffled.

Someone shouts a command. Then, there’s the pounding of feet.

All you can grasp as he maneuvers you is everyone converging at once. A tidal wave about to crash down in full force.

Mid-motion, world spinning, you catch something slender hurtling towards you. One of Sukuna’s lower arms drags you back, trapping you so tightly against his side as he pivots that you can feel his heartbeat.

The rhythm of it grounds you, but only for a second.

A polearm grazes you, narrowly missing your head. You want to fold inward, but before you can react, Sukuna twists you, shoving you low to the ground as another dark object rushes into your path. Then he yanks you upright, tucking you firmly behind him.

His upper right arm swings up.

A wail of agony cracks the air as someone is cleaved in two. The walls inside the room groan as if unable to sustain the force of his energy.

Then he’s moving you again—pulling, shoving, guiding. Back and forth. Over. Under. Backward. Sideways. Front to back. His grip shifts you from one hand to another.

Stomach lurching, your vision tilts as he suddenly weaves through the fray, slipping you both between attackers while his upper arms abandon their hold to carve through flesh and split everything apart.

He’s ruthless. Mercurial.

The King of Curses fights as if it’s what he was born to do, as innate and effortless as breathing.

It’s fucking devastating.

And when one man falls, and another takes his place, Sukuna simply responds.

Metal meets skin. Screams tangle with gleeful laughter.

And you forget to breathe when your husband’s teeth close around a man’s throat, tearing his windpipe in a single brutal motion. Blood sprays. The man collapses. Sukuna swallows, eating the skin he tore, while his eyes roll back, tranquil by the carnage as the room fills with the reeking stench of death.

So much blood.

Everywhere.

But all you can focus on are his hands and how he uses his body to shield yours.

Cool air hits you as he peels you away. He moves you like you’re nothing, his lower right arm lifting you off the ground while his upper left clears the wreckage of a broken table. Without ceremony, he deposits you behind him, a barrier between you and the fight.

“Wait!” Bracing yourself, you clutch at one glove. “I can—”

“Shut up!” he snaps, his palm pressing heavily into your shoulder and slamming you down against the sticky, bloodied floor. Sukuna shifts his legs, planting them firmly on either side of you in a protective stance. The sheath tucked inside your obi digs uncomfortably into your abdomen, making you cringe at the sharp pressure.

From this vantage point, huddled against the ground, you see every broken thing—the bodies, their wounds a flush of pink, the blood soaking into every crevice, the lifeless eyes of men rising up from the floor.

And then it begins to move—the blood.

Not drip. Not pool. It crawls.

It slithers across the room and weaves around the dead like something alive, merging into a dark mass. It gathers itself, oozing toward the back of the room where that other clan has been patiently waiting.

You blink, watching through the shuffling of feet and legs as it rolls up, violating the pull of the earth, toward a man with dark hair. His hands rise, palms outstretched, and the blood flows into his grasp.

Blood manipulation.

Shit.

The air shifts. Pressure builds.

Goosebumps prick your skin, and your blood hums as though it’s answering a call.

You try to make sense of whatever is happening but can’t. All you know is that the energy licking off the dark-haired man is strong. 

Similar to—

“My Lord…” you murmur, your voice shuddering with warning.

But Sukuna is focused elsewhere, fighting the immediate threat and dismissing what lies on the edges of his periphery. 

This was deliberate.

Kill enough people, let Sukuna carve through them, and use their remains as fodder for whatever this is.

A fresh clutch of screams slices the air. Bodies keep dropping, limbs and heads and gore. A descent into fucking madness.

The last of the blood is siphoned to the back of the room.

The pressure continues to rise.

Your ears pop. A high-pitched ringing follows.

“Lord Sukuna!” you yell, snapping his attention back. His lower eyes shoot to you, then upward toward the approaching danger.

For a heartbeat, he freezes.

His top lip curls back.

Fingers twitch.

Then, he slices a nearby man in two, before snatching your kimono and hauling you up from the floor. He moves quickly toward the alcove where you two sat earlier, shoves the table aside, and throws you in.

Your hands fly up to brace against the wall, and you twist, turning to him just as he plants all four arms against the alcove's edges, caging you in. One hand quickly lifts to brush against your neck, healing the wound from earlier.

“Stay here.” His voice clipped, feral. “Don’t even think of—”

He stops. His head snaps to the side, listening. Straining.

You hate that look. You know something’s coming, something’s about to happen.

And then it does.

And you wish it hadn’t.

A low, wet resonance tears through the space before slicing into Sukuna’s body.

His jaw clenches as a shaft, shaped like an arrow of blood, punctures his chest.

The world goes silent save for the ear splitting ring of a following onslaught.

Sukuna hunches but pivots sharply to block the next strike from piercing into you. It splits through his abdomen, right next to his stomach maw.

Scarlet paints the space between you.

Every muscle tenses.

Another shrill sound.

Then the final arrow comes, tearing through his throat, flaying it wide open.

Sukuna stills. His muscles contract.

Your pulse pounds everywhere, drowning out everything but the sight of the King of Curses suddenly dropping.

No.

It’s impossible. He doesn’t get injured. He cannot be injured.

Blood spurts from his open mouth.

He falls.

Your heart stutters.

As his knees fold into the floor, his four eyes roll back, flashing white.

“NO!” 

The scream wrenches out of you, raw and painfully exposed, tearing from somewhere inside your chest that you’ve not dared to open.

You stumble forward, a hand outstretched toward the intrusions jutting from his body, desperate to tear them free. But before your fingers can reach, they dissolve. The dark red arrows liquefy, sliding down his frame, peeling away from his skin, and slithering back toward the room’s edges.

The same pressure as before starts to rise again.

Another volley is coming.

It feels stronger this time, heavier.

Sukuna needs to move. Now. Otherwise…

Otherwise, you don’t know what will happen.

“Get up,” you whisper quietly, looking into his face, then to the three gaping wounds.

The one open on his neck…

So much blood, too much.

You ache to touch him, to heal him, to do something—but you don’t. You don’t know how. And you’re certain your wretched bare hands will only make things worse.

His pink hair is splayed out, matted with gore, his massive body horribly still as he kneels before you.

The atmosphere swells.

It’s coming.

“Get up.” Your hands hover near his face, afraid to touch him even with your gloves on.

He cannot be injured. It’s impossible.

Still, he doesn’t move.

"Get up, you arrogant fucking asshole! Get. Up." Your voice grows increasingly unsteady, thick enough to choke you. 

"Please…"

A small crack. It forms in that dark, guarded place where you keep your emotions tucked away. 

You step closer.

"Sukuna, get up!” you shout, voice trembling. "I need you."

Sukuna blinks.

Your heart stumbles to a limp. Breath pushing hard from your lips, and ribs loosening.

Red irises come into focus, fixing on you. His pupils dilate, drowning in the concentric rings surrounding them.

Another blink. Then, a long, calculating stare that trails across your face. The way he’s looking at you… measuring you, gauging something you don’t understand.

One corner of his mouth twitches—almost a smile, but not quite. Something about it feels mocking, like he’s uncovered a secret through the vulnerability of your voice.

Your face flushes hot.

You don’t like it.

Too much of you was laid bare in those desperate words.

A smirk hooks faintly at the edge of his mouth, and then, in one smooth motion, he stands. Blood rolls off him as he runs a hand through his messy hair, pushing it away from his face.

You retreat a step, your back brushing against the wall as your eyes trace his movements.

It’s as though nothing happened.

Unfazed, Sukuna rolls his neck, the skin around his wounds writhing and bubbling before sealing shut.

You freeze as you realize something.

He was never truly in danger.

This was—

A performance.

Deceptive.

To see—

“How very… human,” he muses quietly, watching you with an unreadable sidelong glance, before turning to the mouth of the alcove where he stands, arms spread wide, ready to take the next assault.

You watch him, want to scream at him, lash out at him and at yourself for the vulnerability you’d shown. But it’s pointless. The throbbing in your ears swells harder and harder.

Peeking around Sukuna’s lower left arm, you take in the room. Attackers cluster at the edges. Their numbers have dwindled—nearly halved—and they appear to pause, as if waiting for the King of Curses to tire, relying on the man manipulating the blood, standing at the center of it all. 

The air is thick with it now, heavy and damp, like a blanket soaked in blood.

And that strange buzzing keeps growing. Louder and louder and louder.

Sukuna tenses.

Any second.

You keep your eyes steady, waiting for it to strike.

But movement, the shape of a man, has your eyes slamming to your left. 

Your father slinks out of the room like the bastard he is, running and disappearing into the corridor.

“No…” you breathe.

He cannot escape. He will not escape. He will die here tonight.

This, you know.

Kill my clan. Take Ayana. Find Yuna.

Your sister’s words coil around inside your head.  

Your eyes lock onto Sukuna’s back as he readies to shield you once more.

Leave him.

The whisper of persuasion slithers in, going around and around.

Your feet feel rooted in place.

I don’t want to—

Leave him.

You’ll need to time this perfectly.

Taking one final look at him, you carve every detail into your memory—the expanse of his naked torso, the protective wall between you and everything else. There’s a selfish desire to touch him. It burns through you like fire, but you know that if you gave in—or saw his face—it would make leaving unbearable.

You won’t make the mistake of looking.

Sister. Protector. Your needs come last.

Leave him.

Forcing your gaze away from the King of Curses, you tear yourself from the wall. Turning sharply, you tuck into the narrow space between his left side and the lip of the alcove. And then, you wait.

The attack will serve as cover, a distraction to slip away unnoticed. Without you, Sukuna won’t have to shield you anymore, and he can do what’s meant to be done.

The seconds trickle by.

It doesn’t take long for the breath to leave the room.

Silence deepens, then shatters all at once.

One shrill, wet sound tears through the air.

You move. Timing it perfectly, you slip under Sukuna’s arm and run.

Behind you, you hear the first impact, a hemorrhage rupturing. Blood sprays like rain, the sound of it collides with flesh and bone ringing out.

You know Sukuna will be fine—and in just three heartbeats, it’s confirmed.

His voice follows you, strained and angry, shouting your name. Not wife, not brat, nothing else. You’ve never heard him say it before, and the rawness in his tone ignites a terrifying urge to turn back, but you don’t.

If you look back, you’ll want to stay. And you can’t.

The second volley comes, but you’re already running.

Stepping over bodies, you push forward, all the destruction a blur. The tattered edges of your kimono flutter wildly at your legs as you spill out of the main hall.

Darting down the corridor, you go, your footsteps tapping so loudly, louder than your heartbeat.

Then you turn, slipping into a quiet passage reserved for immediate family, and thread through the compound.

Another turn. Then pause. Glance over your shoulder. Listen. Then run. Another turn, and finally, you reach a secluded hallway.

Your father will likely head to the stables—likely to flee.

That’s where you’ll go.

One more glance over your shoulder.

Alone.

You keep running.

Suddenly, the entire compound shudders and groans. Sukuna. Tearing this place apart.

Good.

You wish you could see it, see him. Watch him dismantle a place filled with so many vile memories.

But you keep going. Keep moving.

As you reach the end of the corridor and turn a corner, a figure appears at the far end of the passage. A Kasai, hand resting on the hilt of a katana at his waist.

Your eyes lock. Heart pounding, you freeze in place.

He stands motionless, but his mouth gives you a slow, awful smile, fingers curving around his weapon.

Shit.

The moment he reaches you, you know he'll try to kill you.

Doing what you always should have done to Sukuna, you step forward, and calmly, behind your back, you slowly begin to peel away your gloves.

[sheolsparkofficial]

Holy fucking shit you're both idiots! What's the point of tongue-tanning Union's utopian synthleather if you don't even respect a person's provenance to NOT be recognized as a member of a House they have no loyalty to, no personal experience as a member of, and OPEN animosity with?

Yeah, buddy, I know a little bit of how you feel! My parents' departure from the house WEEKS after my birth was not legally recognized by Stone because Stone wanted to retain legal sovereignty over my mother as a "raised noble", which is why I am registered as a member of House Theophrastus despite having never met any of them but my father and against my efforts to be stricken from the registry, because my flesh is proof of my mother's bondage.

So can you PLEASE respect that I might have to bootfuck your cheerios for pissing in mine to save face if you don't stop calling me a rockhead, an act I would not apply to YOU, because I do not recognize their claim to you anymore than I recognize their claim to my mother or to me. Your compatriot seems like a perfectly nice patron to you, but that does not excuse xer or you from thinking about what the fuck you're saying.

And to be clear, I now know and have acknowledged that I made a fucky wucky with interpreting the headline, but, crucially, you and your colleague have BOTH made a point of insulting me in a way that belies a lack of commitment to the stated ideals of your house, and, what you call a lack of fortitude, I call taking no shit. You know, the kind of habit you get into after five years of grindhouse shitshow deployments with the BUC. Even your closest buddies will start to go a little crazy after month six of nutrient replacement bricks and nonconsensual reactor tans. It's best to be sure they need to be a lot crazy to fuck with you. Similarly, as a free mercenary, I can't afford to let nobles with their head up their ass or their loyal friends to walk all over my single most basic fucking public boundary.

So, you guys can choose, actually fucking putting your money where your mouth is and respecting the literal most basic thing I put forward about myself as aligns with every bit of public facing political messaging your house has, maintaining some degree of fucking pride and at least fighting in the name of your own hypocrisy, or continuing to refuse any accountability for the shit you publicly state as members of a house known for its focus on political messaging.

But sure, go ahead. Keep calling it MY house. I'm sure it'll inspire faith that the House of Promise really means it when they say they'll follow the spirit of Union's Pillars, rather than just finding all new, different ways to structure power away from the people. Yeah, you're proof that xe puts xer money where xer mouth is, at least, for people xe fucking personally knows, anyway. And you see no issue with using the same standards that you cast off on others. I can see no issues there. Keep talking, I'm sure Promise loves how this looks.

TODAY'S TOP HEADLINE:

Local Kobold Not Allowed To Play With Its Blocks, Cries So Loud And So Pathetically

Following this incident, a magnitude 6.5 earthquake was detected at the Kobold's last known location by a seismic station 67 kilometers away. So far, no eyewitnesses have been located by Search & Rescue.